Grimspace
by drizzle180
Summary: Her next Jump could be her last...
1. Chapter 1

_**GRIMSPACE**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or Any of the Sirantha Jax series by Ann Aguirre that this is based on.

Her next Jump, may just be her last.

_**CHAPTER 1**_

_**Are you afraid of falling, baby?**_

_No, I'm afraid of landing._

[She's laughing, and I'm smiling.]

Stupid idiot smile, don't you know what comes next?

_**Wake. Wake now.**_

I don't want to see this, not again. It's not helping me deal. This thing is broken—

Oh no. _No._

I sit up, shuddering, shoving the dark mop of hair out of my face, and my fingers come away wet with sweat. With trembling hands, I yank the patch away from my skull. It hurts. But then, what doesn't? What the Unit Psych calls dream therapy, I call torture. Seems too cruel to do this to someone on purpose, and I know they're going to find a way to blame me for the tech malfunction. They always do. But it's not my fault they're using gear that should've been decommed after the Axis Wars.

That's what I want to believe. But it's getting harder. There comes a point when you want to accept culpability simply because you're the only common denominator. So yeah, maybe it's my fault. I push to my feet, off the sleep-mat, restless, haunted, although they proved a long time ago that it's all just electromagnetic energy, nothing spiritual. Nothing left of the soul, nothing left of _him_.

My AI asks, "Lights on, Santana Lopez?"

Such a polite Unit spy. The fragging thing reports everything I do, every time I roll over, probably every time I take a piss.

"Yeah," I tell it, and the soft yellow glow, simulated sunrise on the most hospitable of the tier worlds, fills my cell.

Oh, they wouldn't call it a cell. These are my quarters, provided gratis, while my Unit assesses the damage to my psyche, decides whether I'm whole enough to run. But I'm incarcerated, even if I'm being watched by an AI instead of a hulking brute. There are prisons without bars and worlds without sunlight. I didn't know about either one until I joined the Corp.

I pace ten by ten, and when I reach the door, the AI inquires, "Shall I summon an escort for you, Santana Lopez?"

"No." Wheeling away, I head back to the sleep-mat and sit down, legs furled.

To the AI, I'm sure it looks as though I'm meditating. In fact, I'm envisioning ways to execute something that is not, technically, alive. Perhaps the introduction of a virus into its system…I'll have to think about it some more.

_An escort._

Clearly, I can't be trusted. If I were allowed to roam the station, I'd jump the first freighter I found bound for the Outskirts. Desert. Frag my contract. And they can't let that happen, not until they determine whether the accident was, in fact, my fault. And they _won't_ let me go until they know whether my mind is fried and I can't run anymore.

The first thing carries a prison sentence. I'll be shipped off to Whitefish before I hardly know the judgment's been handed down. It'll be some smug bastard who's never been off New Terra, hearing my case via uplink. I don't know if they've gotten to that point yet, don't know if barristers are involved. I should be consulted for my defense if they make me stand civ trial, but since I _am_ Corp, if it comes to that, they'll probably handle it internally, and in which case I'll end up spaced.

Yeah, I've got the J-gene. And it's rare. But if it seems like it's my fault, that god-awful mess on Matins IV, they're going to make sure not a whisper of it gets out. Kai…she's dead already. So she isn't talking. This leaves me marching out an air lock to keep shit nice and quiet, keep the Corp squeaky clean.

Funny, the shiny adverts that get us to sign on the dotted line never show what bastards the COs are.

Thinking like that makes me sweat. Feel it running down the divots in my spine to pool in the small of my back, clammy beneath the air refreshers blowing down on me. Maybe it _was_ my fault, but I don't want to die, even if I deserve to.

And I could answer the second question right now. Not that anybody's asked me. I can jack in. I can jump.

I just don't want to anymore.

I'm scared.

It's been a week since I heard another human voice. Not counting my AI—I swear programmers code them to be annoying, pedantic little fucks. Oh sure, I could summon an escort to walk me around the promenade, but everyone on station knows what that means. I'm not going to entertain the Corp bureaucrats for even a millisecond. Instead I'm pacing and not sleeping except when I'm forced to dream therapy by the Unit Psych, via sedation and veiled threats. Crying and eating choclaste, a synth-food with no sugar, no caffeine, and only burns your tongue slightly after you've eaten it.

I don't need a mirror to know I'm a wreck. Coarse black hair standing up in long scruffy ringlets, skin pallid from lack of sunlight, and let's not forget the circles beneath my eyes. I've lost four kilos since I came on station, extracted from the wreckage on Matins IV. They didn't need to tell me Kai was dead; I was _there_.

And yet they did, with excruciating, patronizing precision. Fragging bastards.

Four different Psychs came to talk with me, that first day while I was lying helpless in the med bay. One of them wanted to know if I could describe the smell of burning human flesh. The Corp is full of those types, who in another time would've been chopping up their neighbors and burying them beneath the porch. Now they receive specialized certifications and go to work inside our heads.

For a while, I pretend to meditate, giving the room-bot nothing to report. And as I'm sitting there, mimicking serenity I don't feel, my door chime sounds. The AI informs me, "You have a visitor, Santana Lopez. Allow entry?"

It's either a Psych or a CO; nobody else has clearance. Mentally I shrug, and say aloud, "Why not?"

The AI objects: "I am not programmed to evaluate the prudence of an action, Santana Lopez. Allow entry?"

I sigh. "Yeah. Allow entry."

At this point, anything is better than waiting. I don't get up as the door glides open, then I wish I had. Because it's nobody I expected, nobody I know. She's tall, seems taller because I'm sitting down, and she has a rough-hewn, authoritative face, the look you see on women who are accustomed to getting their own way, always. Doesn't look as if she's ever cracked a smile, grave as well, the grave. But she's not a Psych, and she appears to be in civ clothing, so not a CO, either. Shit, she's probably a barrister, which means I'm soon to be a whitefish, no daylight and no parole.

She looks me over, assessing my thin, foxy face and sharp chin. My nose is too long, and a fresh scar bisects my left cheek. I know he's registering the dark hair, light eyes combo that marks my distinctive heterozygous genotype, tied to the J-gene. Mine are icy gray, ringed in silver. Wolf eyes, Kai used to call them.

Remembering that fills me with almost unbearable anguish, and the only reason I'm not sniveling again, while stuffing another square of choclaste in my mouth is because this guy is watching me.

"Have a seat," I say, and I'm glad I sound calmer than I feel.

She's got the choice of dropping down onto my sleep-mat with me or sitting in the only chair, over by the desk. They didn't go overboard with furnishings and took away anything I could conceivably use to injure myself. I'm surprised when she hitches up her meticulously tailored trousers and plops down next to me. I'd have figured her for a chair man, all the way, which just goes to show you can't judge by appearances. Or rather, you shouldn't because you'll be wrong a lot.

Assuming the lotus position, she still doesn't say a word, and just as I'm thinking this is getting weird, she cants her head toward her open palm. I lean over so I can read something that's inked onto her hand:

_Say nothing for 60 seconds._

I raise my head, about to say, _Are you shitting me?_ when her bright eyes catch mine, irresistible intensity. Her look bores into me, and damned if I can say a word for that entire minute. It's like she's willing me to silence, a feat that others have attempted numerous times, and failed.

"If everything has gone well," she says at last, "then our people have sent your AI into its maintenance cycle. Still, our time is limited."

"And if everything hasn't gone well?" That isn't what I want to ask. I want to know who the hell she is. Despite myself, I glance over the terminal, flashing blue, the color code of routine maintenance.

"Then someone would already be here to arrest us." She flashes me a decidedly saturnine smile. Yeah, that word suits her.

Huh, wonder why I'm not reassured.

_**I'm just staring at her, mouth half-open. As soon as I **_realize it, I find something to say, anything. "Who the hell are you?"

"Brittany," she tells me.

"That a name these days?" The smart-ass answer comes naturally, even as I'm trying to figure out her angle. What matters is why she's here, and I'm not sure why I haven't queried her.

Maybe it's because I know it can mean nothing good, this illicit entry to my cell, and this is a way of postponing my all-but-inevitable hop from the frying pan to the fire. Such a quaint descriptive when we've been cooking with molecular agitation for so long, but in my circumstance it's just too apropos.

Besides, she'll tell me anyway. Her type always does. She has an agenda, and it doesn't matter a damn whether I'm on board with it. Doubt anyone's ever told her no and made it stick.

"Enough of one," she says, shrugging. "We need to get you out. You have three minutes to decide, Ms. Lopez, and the clock is ticking. How tight is procedure here?"

When the AI comes out of its maintenance subroutine to find (a) an unapproved visitor or (b) Santana Lopez missing, Klaxons are going to make this place sound like a bunker in wartime. But I shrug.

Honestly, I have no idea. Perlas Station isn't anywhere I've set foot before, and it wasn't a conscious choice this time. This was simply the closest port from Matins IV, where the salvage crew found me, quite inconveniently, alive. I've often wondered why they didn't just finish the job and let the accident go unexplained, a tragedy that the Corp could sweep beneath the metaphorical rug. Dead men tell no tales, and dead women tie up loose ends.

"What makes you think I'm going to leave with you?" Even as I say it, I'm thinking about it, and I'm aware of the seconds winding down. I have to decide fast. If I don't leave, Newel, the Psych who asked me to describe burning human flesh, yes, _that_ one…he's coming again today. He'll be overseeing my "treatment," now and forever.

Deep down I know it's move or die. Haven't I been imagining desertion the whole time I've been locked up in here? Trying to figure out a way to escape? And now it's been handed to me, I'm like a caged bird, afraid to venture beyond the bars, terrified of what lies beyond. That's new. I didn't used to feel like that, used to be the first to dive into free fall.

Maybe this is a trap. Maybe they _want_ me to do this, and I'll be killed during my escape attempt. But at least this way, I have a chance. Here in this cell, I'm a trapped rat, and given the choice, I'll always opt to go down fighting.

"Because you have to. They're not investigating anything, Ms. Lopez. This isolation and the so-called dream therapy they're forcing you to undergo, it's not standard. They're trying to break you. They don't want to know what happened; they just want to make sure you're in no condition to talk about it. Ever. And when you crack beneath the stress, they'll write you off and bury you beneath piles of policy. Ninety seconds, Ms. Lopez."

With an inward jolt, I realize she's right. Nothing they've done to me is conducive to healing. That's not the goal at all. Most likely, I was supposed to fall apart by now. What jumper could live without her pilot and not go mad? Especially when forced to relive the event, over and over and—

When I cracked, I wasn't going to be sent to Whitefish. Instead, I'd wind up in the Corp asylum where they hide the broken ones. All of us snap, sooner or later—you can't spend so much time jacked into grimspace without losing part of yourself. Jumpers know the risks and yet the drive toward exploration, the need to be the first to see a new rim world, make first planetfall with our pilots, these things fire us along an ultimately self-destructive course. We're a little crazy, the J-gene carriers, or we wouldn't be able to handle grimspace in the first place.

With that, I make my decision and push to my feet. "Let's go."

There's nothing here I want. All my personal effects burned up on Matins IV, and so I'm ready to follow this woman into the unknown, trusting wherever she's taking me is better than where I am. That's a hell of a hope to pin on a stranger.

I half expect her to want to talk some more or outline a plan, but she's on her feet as well, expedience ruling the day. That's a welcome change from the bureaucratic bullshit I've dealt with for the last ten days. I doubt the COs wipe their asses without forms in triplicate.

"Need you out of the uniform," she tells me, so brisk that I don't think even for a moment she's angling to get a look at the body beneath. "They'll probably guess you're making for the docking bays, but it'll help if they can't get a vis-ID at a glance."

She intends me to strip, but I know it's not prurient interest. Even before, I wasn't anything special to look at: lean, strong, and energetic, a good partner in bed, but not because I was beautiful. I think that might be tied to the J-gene as well, the hunger for sensation. People don't understand my loss; the Psychs poke at it with morbid curiosity. Intellectually they know it's bad for a jumper when her pilot dies, but they don't understand the relationship.

Imagine for a moment—lover and brother and guardian and partner and—

There are no words. Even if a jumper never sleeps with her pilot, there are still bonds that can't be articulated to the layman. He's the one who watches while you're lost in grimspace, the hands on the ship controls that interpret your signals as you cue the jumps. Every time you jack in, he's the reason you come out safe again. Perfect trust, perfect symbiosis; there comes a time when words aren't necessary anymore.

Well, I can't waste any more time on hesitation. Brittany hands me a plain brown coverall, and I change quickly under her watchful eyes. My whole body's webbed with faint purple burn scars, souvenirs of the crash, so if she has any sense, she'll look away. But she doesn't. She just stares, eyes on mine. I don't trust her, and she doesn't seem to like me, so we make a perfect match. Dressed, I look like a san service worker.

She finishes the makeshift disguise with a bottle of Spray-bond, aerosol colorant used by part-timer punkers who want to be able to wash out their weekend revels and return to the office looking respectable. In my case, dark hair goes grungy gray, and suddenly I've aged twenty-five years. It's not hard to alter how I move because I feel physically stiff from my incarceration. At a nod from her, I stuff the Corp gear down the recycler, and then she manually keys the door open.

"Unauthorized exit from crew quarters!" my AI sings out maybe thirty seconds later as alarms begin to sound. I feel faint satisfaction at having thwarted it, even as we move off. "Unauthorized access to artificial intelligence Q-15. Recommend initiation of lockdown. Unauthorized personnel detected in detention level C."

In the distance I hear booted feet coming to investigate. Shit. We hasten down into the corridor, and I can't tell what time of day it is because the artificial lights never alter. Station life would drive me crazy. I need a natural cycle, which is why I often linger planetside after Kai and I—flinch away from that thought, as I follow Brittany at a dead run. God, I hope that's not a prophetic thought.

The Psychs don't realize the reason I'm not completely nuts, since I've been running a lot longer than most, is that my early life granted me the ability to compartmentalize. Just shut stuff off, lock it away. In a room inside my head part of me may, in fact, already be gibbering mad, but I don't let that one out to howl. Just like part of me mourns Kai, curled up in a corner, sobbing like a child. And the rest of me functions.

Just like now. Can't help wondering what I've gotten myself into, but then I've never been one to wait around. And just what in the hell does she _want_ with me—if this isn't a Corp trap? I have a bad feeling and a stitch in my side, but Brittany isn't breaking stride, and damned if I'll let her outrun me.

Right before the first checkpoint, a pair of Corp security drones stumbles on us, and she never slows, diving between their blue laser fire like this is all part of the job, coming up beneath in their blind spot. Brute force—she crushes them together, smashing their sensors, so their feed to the security station goes black, then he slams them again in a spray of sparks. I hear the low whir of their tiny thrusters slowing, then they drop, heavy, inert. Maybe two corridors over I hear more booted feet. They're coming to investigate the outage of the two drones.

"Move," she tells me fiercely as the second set of alarms kick in.

Orange alert? Holy _shit_.

That means they don't care if they take us alive.

Up till now, I had always thought of the Corp as a friendly Big Brother, hand out to help, interested in exploration, in science and discovery. And sure, they had a military arm, but that was for defense and protection, not for assault. Now I'm wondering just what I don't know about the Corp, what else they do, quiet and smiling, while yokels lap up their adorable ad campaigns about little boys pointing at the heavens in awe as a shooting star carries the Corp logo overhead.

"If they've gone into lockdown, we won't be able to use the doors," I pant, as she makes for the security station at a brisk walk, not unlike the pace one would use if a bit pressed for time for a moderately important business meeting. "Are you _crazy_? We're going to have to fight our way through half the Corp—"

She ignores me and lays out the first guard with a hard hook before the poor bastard hardly registers we're there. Even with alarms sounding, you just don't expect a woman in a suit to fight like a gladiator; you expect her to stride up, and say politely, "I'm sorry, I'm quite turned about. Do you know where the lift is to the hydroponics gardens?" The second man, Brittany takes by the throat and stares into his eyes. I don't know what the frag that was about, but the man just crumples, lying up against the wall as if he's about to piss himself. And once more, Brittany keys the door open, and she's hauling for the next point without looking back.

We pass two more security doors exactly like that while Klaxons blare and more teams deploy. One hand on my cramping side, I can't help but think this is the crappiest rescue I've ever seen and I want _answers_, not that I'm a hundred percent sure I needed rescuing. Maybe that was lack of sleep and paranoia and the general creepiness of Psych Officer Newel. I may have just fragged up and made things way worse for myself, ruined my career and put my fate in the hands of a maniac.

As we hit the freighter bays, a gray squad opens fire. They aren't telling us to halt or to surrender. Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace, they really want to fry us. I dive in behind a ship and growl at Brittany, "You owe me some serious answers if we get out of this alive."

She shoves me toward the boarding ramp of a cutter that's seen better days. From her manner and the way she's dressed, I expected a big hauler or a sporty little cruiser, something with a high price tag and a lot of amenities. Not this junk bucket that looks like it should've been decommed _before_ the Axis Wars. The gray squad closes on us with military precision, using cover and working the perimeter in a metric circle. Soon they'll be on us, boarding the ship. A laser blast sears the metal at my feet, and I fall back, farther up the ramp.

Talk about ass choices. I've got this shit bucket and a nutcase or a bunch of gray men coming for me.

She reads my look and shrugs. "However she looks, this ship is sound. Can you jump, Ms. Lopez? Our lives depend on it."

Jump? But I don't have a pilot.

My look or my mind? Because she adds, "Yes, you do."

My throat tightens, and I feel a fist curling around my intestines. It's a cramp, rising nausea. It's being told you have to remarry before your husband's cold in the grave. Before I can say a word, she boards. No more conversation. It's up to me now. Stay or go. Reluctantly, I admire the fact that she doesn't bullshit, doesn't explain, doesn't persuade. Maybe she knows I can't resist a mystery or a challenge or both. Or maybe she just knows I'm not looking to die today, because the gray men are almost on me.

I follow.

_**The inside of the ship restores my faith in benevolent **_deities.

Controls are new, shiny, and everything's well maintained, clean, from the corridors to the cockpit. It's almost like they're using the exterior as camo, nothing to see here, just another struggling ship. And that's probably not too far from the truth.

It's an eight-seater, at least I see that many places where crew can strap in for a jump. Possibly she could carry more, but there'd be no guarantee what would become of them while passing through grimspace. Generally, only refugees are desperate enough to take the risk. But there aren't six other people on board. In fact, I just see three, now gazing at me, although there may be more in medical or the holds.

"I got her," Brittany says, as the boarding ramp seals behind us.

"Use the override launch codes Mair gave us, and let's go."

I can hear the impact of gray-squad lasers striking the hull. Luckily, the Corp's response time isn't good here on Perlas; they've grown complacent, unable to imagine anyone could challenge their authority or breach their security. Something tells me—times they are a-changing.

The others busy themselves right away, as if there's no question she's in charge. While they're not talking to me, I study them one by one: an older man with the heavy musculature that signals an upbringing on a high-G world and another man of indeterminate years, slim and androgynous. The older man, silver hair, neat goatee, runs a device across my temple and smiles. "Positive ID," he tells someone over a comm unit, and I'm left staring at him in bewilderment. Last, there's a woman around my age, blond, Kind of butchy. She regards me with open animosity, and for a moment, I can't breathe, just scorched by the look in her hazel eyes, but then the look's broken like someone cutting a live wire. There's even a resultant explosion.

"Shit," she says, leaning down to punch some things into a terminal, pulling up maps and grids. Even I know that the blinking red square is not a good sign.

The older man takes off at a dead run in response, and Brittany disappears through a sliding door. Not much for talking, that one.

Yeah, okay, I understand—action's imperative. But still, I've been in solitary for over a week; I want to know something about the people taking me away. Is that too much to ask?

Shit, it _is_. Someone's finally thought to get the freighter bay turrets online, and the hull's now being hammered. We've got to get out of here. Like, ten minutes ago.

Of them all, I have no idea who my pilot is supposed to be. That's not a good sign. A jumper is supposed to feel instant rapport—how else can I trust them? The Corp offers hundreds of candidates up for evaluation. In its way, the relationship is more important than marriage, more lasting and more vital to my welfare. I had a husband once, but he couldn't handle coming second to Kai, and he left me, several spins before I actually noticed he was gone.

I'm not _ready_ for a new pilot, not even one hundred percent sure I can do this. I mean, I'm not fried. It's not that. There comes a point in every jumper's life where she knows she's at the limit—next time she jacks into grimspace, she's not coming back. Navigating those beacons will be the last thing she does, but it's like being an addict to almost any chem. You know it's killing you slowly, but you can't quit, don't even want to, because the pleasure outweighs your fear of consequences.

And I guess most of us would rather go out in a blaze of glory, burned-out, than to be one of the saddest folks alive, someone who used to own grimspace and knows she can't anymore. _Knows._ I haven't hit that boundary yet myself, but I don't think I want to retire. I didn't become a jumper to die old and gray.

But there's a knot in my stomach, and I feel like I'm waiting in a seedy hostel for a stranger, unfaithful, like all the years with Kai, first friends, then lovers—so much more—meant nothing. My palms feel damp, cold, and I wipe them on my thighs while the ship shakes. Before, it was all exhilaration, pitting myself against phenomenal odds and coming out with my mind intact, guiding my ship and crew safely to our destination. I'm the reason we rule the star lanes, me. Santana Lopez. Well, me, and folks like me, J-gene carriers. There's so few of us; we're treated like Corp royalty.

Until we burn out.

Until we kill our pilots and crew and have to run—

_Enough._

"Where the frag is Joe?" Brittany emerges in fatigues, a black shirt, and a combat jacket, which make her look bigger, meaner but compelling, a fact I resent because I hate how she superimposes herself over Kai's memory, just standing there. This gear suits her better than formality, strips away all pretense of civility and civilization. Kai was slim and girlish, no matter her age. She was, in fact, three years my senior when she died, but nobody would've ever guessed. "And why aren't you in the nav chair yet?" To me.

"Bad news," The woman says, looking grim. "The turrets did some damage in the holds and the power coupling—"

Brittany grits her teeth. "If something needs repair, get your ass down there and fix it. What the hell does that have to do with—"

"If you shut your gob, you graceless wonder, I'll tell you what it has to do with Joe." The ship rocks, and I grab on to the safety harnesses that hang like webbing from the cabin ceiling. "We're screwed, stranded, and no repairs are going to help." She brings up an image on-screen, clearly from medical, and even I can tell that the guy on the table isn't getting up. His head's, well, open.

_Please_ don't tell me that was my pilot.

"Why me?" I say aloud.

"What the frag was he doing in the holds?" Brittany growls, pacing like a caged animal. We're losing precious time; the ship's going to open up like an Old Terra tin can if we keep sitting here.

"He won't—wouldn't—fly without his lucky hat. One of the san bots took it to storage because he left it in the lounge the last time we played mah-jongg," the doc puts in quietly. I hadn't realized we were on a two-way feed, but it makes sense. He steps away from the body with a heavy sadness that makes me like him instinctively.

"Isn't there _anything_ we can do?" They all look at me as if surprised to learn I have a voice. "Get weapons online, something."

The young man with the disquieting eyes tells me, "All that would accomplish is a wanton waste of life. I'm Kurt."

Seems like an odd time to be thinking of introductions, but what the hell. "Santana Lopez."

To my surprise, the blond woman answers, although she doesn't say it's nice to meet me. "Quinn, ship's mechanic, part-time gunner, engineer, whatever needs fixing." She indicates the vid display with a tilt of her head. "The doc is Sam. And now you know the names of all the people you've killed. Maybe."

"Frag you," I tell her, without even asking what she means. Frag her for thinking she knows what happened on Matins IV. She wasn't there. I'm the sole survivor, and even I'm not altogether sure. My dreams tell different stories, day to day. I'm not certain I can trust any of them.

Quinn adds to her, though she's still looking at me, "After the _Sargasso_, I can't believe we have her on board. When you heard Svet died in the crash, you said—"

_Shit._ I've run away with people with a grudge, and hell, maybe they have cause. I brace because this woman seems ready to gouge my eyes out.

"_Dammit."_ The word sounds wrenched from Brittany. Quinn and I both turn, on the verge of going after each other, even with the ship about to come down around our ears. "I can do it," she adds, in the tone of a woman who has volunteered to be fed to the giant thing that lives in the volcano. "Let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

_**GRIMSPACE**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or Any of the Sirantha Jax series by Ann Aguirre that this is based on.

Her next Jump, may just be her last.

_**CHAPTER 2**_

"You're a pilot?" Quinn regards him with puzzlement and dawning hope.

She doesn't answer her, glaring at me like this is my fault. Brittany— whatever reason she took it up, whatever reason she stopped, she wasn't a pilot for the thrills, like Kai, no she's an older archetype, dating all the way back to the conqueror Cortez. It's not enough to discover new lands, but she has to see the natives bend at the knee, too.

The fact that I have to place my life in her hands makes me sick to my stomach. I'd never have chosen her, not in a thousand years. There's too much dominance in her, too much that doesn't care what's damaged as long as she gets her way. And I think she knows my reaction by virtue of my expression or some alchemy that I haven't pinned down. She doesn't seem like a typical Psi, but she reads my thoughts too close for comfort.

"Get your ass in the cockpit," she says. "We came a long fragging way, and we're not stopping here just because you aren't sure you like me."

"Where's the jumper who got you here?"

Finally, it comes to me, the question that's been bugging me. Outside the ship he said, _Can you jump? Our lives depend on it._ Perlas is too deep for any ship to hit without jumping; there isn't a far cruiser outfitted that can haul the straight space between those two points. People have died trying. So why then does everything hang on me?

Another explosion; shit, we don't have time for this. The ship won't hold much longer. Quinn hisses, and I wheel on her, instinctively bracing. She _really_ wants to rush me now, I can tell, but instead she just exchanges a laden look with Brittany, who nods. Giving permission?

"It was her last run," the other woman tells me in a voice sharp and hard as the surface of Ielos, a winter world on the rim.

_Last run. _

Brittany knows the moment I parse that. Their jumper understood that it was suicide— that she'd never make it out of grimspace intact, not this time. Thus gambling their fate on getting me on board, getting me in the nav chair. When did I become someone worth dying for?

This changes everything. They sacrificed their jumper to get me out of here, so we're going. I'll jump. She died for me. Intellectually, I know someone on this crew put her down, like an Old Terra horse whose wind's been broken. Too great a heart, body can't contain it. It's a kindness most don't have the guts to perform.

"What was her name?" I need to know.

"Rachel." It's the woman who answers me, once again.

I can see in her eyes that she's grieving. That's why she hates me. It isn't personal so much as the fact that Rachel died for me, and Quinn wasn't ready to let her go. Whether they were lovers or the mechanic simply loved her, it's not my business. But I can respect loss. Understand it. This ship isn't ready for a new jumper any more than I'm ready for a new pilot. Something flickers in my brain pan, part of my classical Old Terra education, long since discarded for the thrill of grimspace.

_ He must needs go that the devil drives. _

Yeah, that. Sod what we want. We've got to play the hand we're dealt. Not so long ago, I could call my soul my own. Clean. Contracted to the Corp, sure, but I didn't owe any karmic debts. But now I've got Kai and the rest of the crew weighing on me. Plus seventy-five souls who relied on me to transport them safely to their destination, among them the beloved Miriam Jocasta, freely elected Conglomerate representative to all the tier worlds. Now add to that body count this unknown jumper, the pilot in Med Bay, and I'm feeling like a brick. I don't say another word, just head for the cockpit.

It's time.

_**Try to describe grimspace for us.**_

At parties, when everyone's knocked back a few, there's always someone who asks me to do that. They don't seem to understand, it's like trying to define red for a blind man. If you're not a jumper, then you're blind to the most extraordinary, primordial colors. And nothing I say will help you understand.

The name's misleading. Grimspace means inexorable, implacable. Not to be appeased. You see, grimspace will have its due from all who traverse it. But it's beautiful there, or we wouldn't be drawn back, time and again, driven on by a jones stronger than anything mankind could devise. Jumpers burn out smiling for a reason.

_My pretty, poisonous mistress, I'm coming back. _

New ship. New pilot. Same old Santana Lopez.

I settle into the nav chair and run my hands over the interface, checking the port to make sure it's clean. Knowing that my predecessor fried right where I'm sitting, well, talk about cold chills. I focus on procedure, not the fact that the ship's being bombarded. I've never jumped under these circumstances, but I can do this. I can. _Just be cool, Santana. _

It occurs to me as I'm setting up, ready to jack into the nav system, that it's got to be terrifying for a pilot, working with a new jumper for the first time. And who knows how long it's been for Brittany? Meanwhile we've got people shooting, and I'm supposed to be her eyes, and she acts as my hands. For the duration of a jump, we're literally twined together via wetware, and even if I knew how, I couldn't fly the ship while I'm tracking grimspace, finding beacons the old ones left along the star lanes, so long ago that we've given up trying to date it. In trying to figure out FTL travel, someone, a long fragging time ago, discovered a better way.

Grimspace.

And so, just as I have to trust her to make the right adjustments to the controls, safeguard my body while I'm seeing nothing but a world so wide that I don't have words to encompass it, she has to trust that I'm not going to steer her wrong. Oddly, even though I can _do _it, I have only a fundamental grasp of the principles.

Jump ships all carry a phase drive that accesses the secondary space that bends distance beneath, between, whatever, two points in straight space. To get from here to there, you jump into grimspace via the phase drive, then your navigator finds the beacon nearest your destination, and you make the jump back. The beacons are like doors, portals, something, a corridor back and forth, and the phase drive, well, that's the key.

Eons after discovering its existence, we're still exploring the Star Road. That was our specialty, Kai and me. Making long jumps to places no one's ever been. Tagging new beacons. Logging what's there and providing charts for the Corp, sometimes livable worlds, sometimes gas giants, sometimes asteroid belts where a planet might have been.

I loved it. Loved _her,_ after a while.

Lost her.

_Oh God, Kai, I'm sorry, baby. It's too soon._

Brittany is looking at me. Waiting for me to jack in. But she doesn't say anything, nothing to ease the moment but nothing to make it harder, either. She doesn't bitch at me to hurry, even though I need to, or tell me that there are lives hanging on me. There are always lives hanging on me. Maybe that's why jumpers go crazy.

_Control yourself, Lopez; don't let nerves get you. _

She's not Kai, never will be, but I've got to learn to do this with her. In a way, it's more intimate than fucking a stranger because she's going to be part of me for the duration of our flight. I don't _want_ Brittany inside of me.

Kurt speaks over the comm, calm, measured. "Launch override codes input, bay doors opening in approximately ten seconds. You'll need to hold them, though. Corp security won't permit them to remain that way long."

I feel the swerve as the ship lifts, reluctantly admire the way Brittany handles the controls. The weapons systems come online, and she fires, disabling the bay doors. They're standing wide now, and I can see through the forward screen that the gray men are fighting vacuum; nothing about this has gone according to Corp procedure. Gray men don't boast flexibility as one of their dominant traits. They expected to stop us in the bay; we weren't supposed to get this far. But we have. One thing about gray men… they just don't quit. They're going to hunt us to the end of the galaxy.

Cheerful fragging thought.

"Quinn, take over guns. Return fire, keep them off us."

And in a graceful spin, we're out, weapons fire coming in hard on aft shields. They're scrambling ships, but it will take time to find a jumper fit to run, and we've got one ready to go. Me. The stars swim around us, and part of me thrills to it, even as I suck in a breath, preparing myself for Brittany. I'm a virgin on her wedding night, arranged marriage, and I've never even given her a closed-mouth kiss.

"What's our destination?" I ask. "Let me see the star charts."

That seems to reassure her because a good jumper always wants to see the locus of two points in straight space before she tries to translate it. And I'm no exception. I study the maps for a minute, noting that we're making for a habitable rim world. Lachion. It's just an outpost, really, a place to refuel, buy supplies and a whore for the night.

Taking a deep breath, I plug in.

And the cockpit disappears.

Right now I'm simply blind. She's giving instructions over the comm, and I hear the crew acknowledging orders. They've strapped in and donned their helmets. Superstitious spacers say if you don't wear your headgear during a jump, there are demons waiting to suck the soul right out of your body. While that sounds a whole lot like Old Terra sailors who believed sea monsters would eat you if you sailed over the edge of the world, I _do _know it's a bad idea to run unprotected.

We haven't made the jump yet, and I can feel the phase drive powering up, the trembling hum of the seat beneath my fingertips. And then Brittany plugs in beside me, and I can_ feel_ her in ways I never wanted to. There's no give to her, even here, but I sense a self-deprecating humor that I didn't expect, and it gentles her, making her easier to bear.

_You ready?_ She doesn't need to say it any more than I need to vocalize my response. At this moment, we're beyond all that. We're pilot and jumper, and we're going forth together.

_Now. _

The world opens up to me, an orchid unfurling at accelerated speed. I think of it as the primeval soup from whence all life originally came, a maelstrom of chaos and energy, sights the human mind isn't supposed to be able to parse, let alone convert into coherent images that can be used to navigate.

Because of the J-gene I can sense the beacons, feel them pulsing like sentient life, and perhaps they are, for all I know. Perhaps if we could find their frequency, we could converse with them and discover we've long been diving down the gullets of cosmic dragons and shooting out their cloacae to somewhere else, and guess what, they aren't exactly happy about it. On second thought, some mysteries simply shouldn't be delved into.

She senses my directives in the same oblique manner in which I'm conscious of her hands on the controls. I feel her making adjustments according to what I see, a symbiosis that's never seemed more miraculous than this moment. It's an eternity; it's a heartbeat, and grimspace gazes back at me, scintillant and impossibly alluring.

That's the bait in the trap, you want to stop focusing on yourself and you want to _explore_ in ways that aren't corporeally possible. For the first time it occurs to me— perhaps burnout isn't such a dreadful thing. Perhaps it's nothing to fear at all, simply another doorway opening.

No. That's Brittany. Rare for a pilot to risk breaking a jumper's concentration, but I sense frissons of tension rippling through her, soul deep. _That's how a navigator thinks, preparing herself for the last run. You're not there. You're not._

Instinctively, I reassure her. I don't know why she gives a shit. But it hurts her to think of leaving me here. I feel it, crashing over me in waves she can't quite subdue. Maybe it's transference. She's grieving, too… for Rachel, who was her friend, if not her jumper, for someone named Svet, and for another navigator whose name I don't know. I glimpsed hher myriad losses before her walls came up, and I don't know when I ever saw someone so alone.

Before this moment, I never thought about what it's like for a pilot when their jumper leaves them behind. End of the flight, and she's still in the nav chair beside them, but she's gone. The spark, radiance, whatever made her unique. Gone. I know what it's like to be left behind. And that's rare for a jumper; we don't have long life expectancies.

_Almost there. _

Gravitational pull. My mind's wide-open, full of flares, sheer artistry that even the best pilot cannot comprehend. At its most basic level, the universe is beautiful. We're about to slingshot through our target beacon and back out to straight space.

I've done it.

Distantly I know that the ship's trembling beneath me again, readying itself for the second jump. And then feel it, the instant before I go blind again. Leaving grimspace hurts. But then, what doesn't?

We should be just a short cruise away from Lachion. So many outposts spring up along the Star Road, and the only thing that comes close to the feeling after a solid run is free fall. For this moment, I don't even mind that Brittany is here, sharing my pleasure, that I'm making her feel good because I do. But she's not sampling that on purpose. As soon as she can, she unplugs, and I do the same. Even though I don't know her, not even sure if I like her, I already miss her. You don't know what it's like to be alone until you've had someone inside your head.

And that, you see, is why so many pilots and jumpers wind up sleeping together. It's too much on the senses— that mutual stimulation needs an outlet, and there comes a point when nobody else will do. You want to share your body the way you've shared your mind, so many times, and the sex is better, stronger, and so intense.

Some pairs do it while jacked in, not while jumping, of course, but in the cockpit, joined both ways, writhing together, ecstasy washing back and forth in a closed circuit, constantly driving things higher. It becomes its own addiction after a while, and I've known pilots who simply can't perform unless they're with a jumper.

Anything else is just too vanilla.

_** Like she knows what I'm thinking, Brittany flicks me a**_ scathing look as she signals the crew it's safe to unstrap from the harnesses and remove helmets. While they report back, I decide that doing me, jacked in or otherwise, is the last thing on her mind. That's good; it's a complication I neither want nor need. I stretch, conscious of no more wear and tear than a residual headache, like a day-old hangover.

I've had worse.

Leaning forward, I take a look at our updated position on the nav charts, and yeah, we came out right on target. Lachion's less than a two-hour cruise, and I settle back to watch. Don't know what I think I'll learn, but she's good at what she does; sure, capable hands manipulating the controls, attentive to various readings. Stuff I don't understand, to be honest. I'm not a pilot, although I've spent almost half my life on board ships.

"Good jump," she says finally.

And it's a surprise to hear her voice, different, more forceful. Then I could sense her uncertainties and constant grief. Now she's all steel and implacable resolve again.

"I don't think it was my fault," I blurt, before I've formed the words inside my own head. But I need to say it. I need someone to believe me. Don't know whether Brittany is that someone, but I need some of the weight off my soul.

She cuts me a sharp look, a full ten seconds away from the control panel. "Matins IV?" As if there's any doubt what I mean.

"Yeah." I don't look at her. Instead I stare out into straight space, nothing too fascinating there for one accustomed to wildfire. But it's better than measuring her expression, doubting my own credibility.

"We don't think so, either," she answers, neutral.

Something in her tone tells me she's speaking more for others than herself. Having seen inside her, I can say with authority— Brittany is a person, who, if asked to capture the legendary pink orangutan of New Inglaterra, would devise a foolproof plan to catch said beast and equip herself with all necessary accoutrements, and never mind the fact that she doesn't believe in the thing. So, no, she doesn't necessarily believe me. But that doesn't matter to her because she's been asked to deliver me, and I'm starting to wonder why.

"Why me?" I know I don't need to clarify.

One of the advantages to the pilot/ jumper bond is that even when you jack out, you carry certain awareness with you, remembrance of how your partner's mind works. She'll know what I'm asking although she could choose to be an ass and feign incomprehension. I respect the fact that she doesn't.

"You're pretty old," she tells me, not unkindly. I'll be thirty-three this year. "And you've logged over five hundred successful jumps and more new charts for the Corp than any navigator ever. There are people who would like to know the secret to your success, Ms. Lopez. I represent those interested parties."

"And they can't find out shit from me if the Corp cracks my brain like an egg and locks me up."

Okay, so… the Corp used me for fourteen years, knowing I would eventually burn out. And I said yes because I wanted adventure and excitement, wanted off New Terra. I wanted the universe; why should I settle for one boring man and a passel of kids? And now, someone wants to use me to find out why I haven't burned out yet. You know, I'm a bit tired of being used. They're going to learn I'm not the easy mark they anticipate.

Brittany offers that saturnine smile again. "Just so. We were sent to prevent that from occurring if at all possible."

And she's telling me the truth, as far as it goes. There may be more to it, but she isn't actively lying. I'd know if she was.

"I'm sorry about Rachel."

Her smile falters. Dies. "Yes," she says, too quietly. "Me, too."

Don't know why I said that. It wasn't my fault—

Then it occurs to me I'm singing that refrain a hell of a lot, lately. At what point do I accept some blame? No, I never asked her to make her last run with saving me as the objective; that was her choice. But if it weren't for me, maybe she would've chosen retirement instead. I feel like I need to make her sacrifice worthwhile.

"Okay if I go talk to the crew?" I really want out of the cockpit. This is more awkward than waking up next to someone whose name you don't remember.

She nods. And that's all. As I go down the corridor, I can't help but think she's almost as glad to see the back of me as I am to go. They're all chatting, still sitting in their safety seats, although not strapped in anymore. When I come into the central hub, though, conversation dies as if I've lobbed a grenade. I drop down in one of the empty places and fold my ankle up on my knee. Wait.

It doesn't take too long. Most people can't stomach silence; it provides too much opportunity to think about things they prefer to avoid. It's the young man who speaks first, something that doesn't surprise me much.

"Is it true you made the leap to Quaren when you were just nineteen?"

Don't know if I should disillusion him. I didn't realize I'd acquired a reputation. We just do what we do, you know? And seldom think about how the rest of the universe perceives us. "In fact, I was twenty-three. Was nineteen when I made my first jump, period."

I know my service record. Almost fourteen years, averaging forty-one jumps a year for a total of five hundred seventy-five successful runs, and of those, I charted eighty-eight new beacons for the Corp. Decorated twice for bravery beyond the call. And the average jumper burns out in less than ten. So I guess I can understand why someone is interested in finding out what makes me tick. Unlock my secrets, and maybe he could improve productivity for other jumpers. That'd be a good thing, overall.

However, the critter that winds up dissected for the greater good… well, I'm guessing it probably doesn't feel too pleased about the contribution. So I'd do well to be on my guard and remember that even the good guys probably don't have my best interests at heart. The only person I could've trusted at my back, no exceptions, had her molecules dispersed with all due ceremony about fourteen days ago.

I fucking miss her.

"There are some things waiting for you in quarters," the doc, Sam, is saying. "Clothes. You can change and make use of the san facilities, if you want." He sounds strange, diffident, at odds with his stolid, steady appearance. "Down the hall, second right. The door will recognize you."

His sincerity gets to me. It's easy to be tough when everyone around you is bristling with rancor and suspicion, but let someone show you some genuine kindness, and you find yourself on the verge of breaking down. So I just nod and follow his instructions. Can feel Quinn's eyes boring into my back. That one would rather space me than deliver me safely to Lachion.

Walking away, I hear Quinn logging her report: "Aft shields at thirty-five percent in sectors 12 and 18, damage to the holds, structural damage in—" But I tune her out. That stuff is her worry. As long as the ship's in one piece and will get us there, I don't much care.

My quarters are small, no more than a closet with a bunk built out from the wall, but as promised, I find a change of clothes and a san shower. Feels good to be clean, and when I dress, I notice that someone's been studying my file. Because this blue bodysuit is an exact replica of one I wore for a photo op with tall s-leather boots and tribal jewelry from one of the inhabited rim worlds, all handmade stuff, very rare. A gift when we made planetfall since a jumper is part navigator, part surveyor, and part diplomat. I've made first contact with indigenous peoples no less than five times.

The outfit is smooth; it stretches at the neck enough to let you shimmy into it, then the fabric snaps back into place. It's some poly-silk blend that looks elegant but doesn't snag or tear and it's damn near fireproof. I wish I had my boots; they weren't just a fashion statement, as the toes were reinforced and a well-placed kick would break someone's kneecap.

As I'm emerging from quarters, Brittany's voice comes over the comm. "Approaching Lachion, planetfall in half an hour. All crew to stations please."

That seems an unnecessary formality, given the size of the crew, but I watch, hoping to learn something about my companions. And I do. From the central hub, Sam heads for medical, but I already knew he's the ship's doc. Quinn told me she serves as mechanic, and that just leaves Kurt. He takes position at the comm, so he must be the communications officer, and that usually includes systems work and encryption.

"He's a savant," Brittany says at my shoulder. "He hears a language once, intuitively understands its syntax and structures. Vocabulary takes another day or so."

I jump. "Going to put a bell on you," I mutter.

_Is_ she reading my mind? Or following the trajectory of my gaze, deducing my thoughts via logic instead of Psi? I honestly have no idea, and I've never encountered that before. Nothing in her mind gave me any clue. Unlike Kai, who was a chaotic whirl of impulses, half-formed ideas and inclinations, Brittanywas orderly, silent, contained. Even while we were jacked in, I received few things from her that she didn't specifically send.

_Compartmentalized_, I realize. _Like me._

I glance at her.

And she smiles, cool and humorless. "They'll be waiting for you when we touch down," she says. "Try not to offend anyone."

Smile sweetly back and reply, "Isn't that your job, graceless wonder?"

I'm pretty sure I hear Quinn chuckle.


	3. Chapter 3

_**The sky looks like a boiled potato.**_

An ugly gray-white, overcast, beyond the hangar it's sputtering snow, and Brittany didn't see fit to advise me of the season or provide a winter coat. So I'm shivering, arms wrapped around myself. Hard to look imposing while your teeth chatter.

Don't know what I expected, some kind of diplomatic delegation or another sort of welcoming party? What's waiting for us looks more like a dysfunctional family. There's a tan, leathery man chewing on an unlit cigarillo, yeah, I know— those have been outlawed on civilized worlds for a long time. He's wearing an old-fashioned gun belt, retrofitted, wherein he's carrying the tools of his trade. I_ hope _those are spanners.

They don't even manufacture live rounds anymore, do they?

And then there's the old woman with a pouf of silver hair, cosmetics caked into the creases of her face. She looks like a stereotypical holo-representation of a madame; I half expect her "girls" to pour out of a nearby ship and cluster around her, giggling. But nope, that leaves the third member of the quartet waiting for me, a short, slight fellow with a receding hairline and a rabbity face, very little chin. The last person appears to be a surprisingly young woman, although I've learned not to accept things at face value. But she's slim— smooth skin, dark hair… and she has pale green eyes.

My gaze sharpens. There's a J-gene carrier, unregistered, out here in the back of beyond? The Corp should have signed her up, begun her training, and had her making jumps by now. Well, if not currently, then within a year or two. I put her age around eighteen, but I might be wrong.

Well, if I'm holding out for a polite introduction from my new crewmates, I'll wait forever. They've arrayed themselves at my back, silent. I sense amusement from Brittany; she enjoys seeing me at a disadvantage, I think. I don't know why, as she's certainly seen me that way a lot. From the first moment she entered my cell and caught me on the verge of tears, she's seen more of that than probably any other living soul. It occurs to me that, for the sake of symmetry, I should probably kill her.

Brittany cuts me a sharp look. _Okay, what the hell_—

"I'm Santana Lopez," I say aloud.

"Yes, we know." Really don't like the way the old woman smiles; there's a spidery quality to her from her wrinkle-web face to the strands of hair slithering from her bouffant bun. "Your reputation precedes you."

By dumb luck, I retain my polite smile because there's definite nastiness to her tone. I'm trying to decide how to respond to that, remembering that Brittany told me not to offend anyone, when I feel something drop around my shoulders. Glancing back, I see that it's Sam, the ship's doc. At least he's on my side. He's given me his overcoat; the length is about right, but it would wrap around me twice with fabric to spare. Still, I appreciate the gesture, and I shrug into it fully, nice heavy s-wool.

"Thanks," I murmur, and he steps back, leaving me to deal with these strangers. Oddly, just by virtue of the coat, I feel more armored, more equipped to do so. "Brittany didn't have time to brief me."

And the bitch elbows me in the back because she knows I'm bullshitting. Guess it entertained her to throw me in headfirst and watch whether I'd sink or swim. I'm starting to wonder how bad it would've been, lounging around a Corp asylum for the rest of my days under heavy sedation.

The leathery man chuckles. "That's Britt for ya. I'm Jor Dahlgren. Good to finally meet you." _As if we've been planning this rendezvous for a while._ I must admit, it's more than a little unnerving to have people making those kinds of pronouncements. His handshake grinds my knuckles together, but I don't wince when I pull my hand back. "This is my mother, Mair Dahlgren, and my daughter, Marley." The girl inclines her head to me like royalty, and the crone's smile widens, revealing yellow teeth.

"The pleasure's mine."

Holy shit, they really are a dysfunctional family. A _family_ had the power to dispatch someone to Perlas Station, send my AI into maintenance, and manually unlock my cell door? If so, what're they doing on a backward rock like Lachion? Damn, it's cold here. The wind's slicing right through the overcoat down to the slinky s-silk bodysuit. I may look good, but I'm going to poke No-chin's eye out if he gets any closer.

Jor doesn't introduce the little guy, so I turn to him, and he's bright enough to take the cue. "I'm Carl Zelaco, their financial advisor."

_Of course you are. With that face, you couldn't have been anything else._

"A pleasure," I repeat. And Brittany snort-snickers. "I'm sure we have much to say to one another," I continue, though I'm actually not. "Perhaps we should adjourn inside and talk matters over?"

I don't actually see anything here but this godforsaken hangar. The sky is wide-open, no sign of civilization, but surely there's _something_. Or maybe there isn't, which is the whole point. As I ponder that, the scar beneath my rib cage chooses that moment to itch, and I can't scratch it. Kurt seems to be staring at something nobody else sees, but then, Brittany did say he was a savant. So who knows what that's about?

"An eminently agreeable suggestion," No-chin Carl says. "Step this way, we have a rover waiting to convey us to the compound."

_Compound?_ Hate the way my gaze goes to Brittany, for reassurance or clarification, regardless, nothing that I want to ask of her. But I've already done it because she's nodding at me, just as she nodded at Quinn on board the ship. There's a five-year-old inside me who wants to kick her shins.

Insufferably, she smiles.

With an inward sigh, I turn to follow the leather-tan man. This rover's new, shiny, with plating that makes me worry about the wildlife. "Are we likely to be attacked?" Even the tire rims are spiked, as if to slam another land vehicle. I'm trying to remember what I've heard about Lachion, but this is the last place any jumper would linger. There's nothing to discover or report, just some mudsiders playing—

_Wild West, Old Terra style. Ah, shit._

"Oh, I do hope so," says Mair.

"Probably not," the accountant answers. "We're pretty far from—" He grunts as Jor slugs him in the gut, but I guess he's used to that because he doesn't double up or fall over, although he cradles his stomach as he walks. Huh, he's tougher than he looks.

"You'll be entirely safe with us," Marley tells me, smiling prettily, and I have to wonder why her sweetness scares me most of all.

Dahlgren's got his entourage, and I've got mine, I think with some amusement, although Quinn would happily shove a shiv between my shoulder blades and twist. I'm less sure of Kurt, and Sam, well, he seems to admire me. Or perhaps he just possesses that old world courtesy bred into some men as a relic from a patronymic culture. Whatever the reason, I'm wearing his coat, and he's shivering, so I count that a win.

That just leaves Brittany. _Obnoxious, odious—_

"Obstreperous," she suggests, sotto voce.

I nod, then jerk my head in her direction. Her smile becomes a smirk. Oh shit, she's Psi. She _is_. There's no getting away from her, even when we're not jacked in. But what the hell, I've never heard of a Psi pilot. They're rarer than jumpers and almost always scooped up in early childhood, whisked away to Psi-Corp to learn how to filter out thought-noise. Historically, Psi-sensitives bounced in and out of mental asylums until they killed themselves. Until people figured out they were not, in fact, insane, and they really _were_ hearing voices. Thoughts. Whatever.

So add one unregistered jumper, one freelance Psi, and me, and you get—

"— your ass in the rover," Brittany says.

The dysfunctional family sits, regarding me expectantly. Behind me, I sense Quinn stirring. I don't need to be Psi to know she's looking at Brittany, asking with a look, _Can I kill her now, boss?_ And the bitch of it, I can't even entertain myself plotting long, intricate revenges because she might hear me. And laugh, knowing I can't carry out any of my threats. Oh, but her day is coming. I swear.

For now, I get my ass in the rover.

**We're making good time to the middle of nowhere, and** I still don't have a clue where we're going or why.

Let me just say, that's getting old. I'm starting to think I was better off in my cell. Brittany offers me a tight smile, as if she isn't sure she disagrees. But before I can go all prima donna and start demanding answers, shit gets interesting.

"We've got Gunnars coming up fast," Marley says, as if she's offering us tea and biscuits, and Jor swears as he swerves hard left, narrowly avoiding a collision with something that looks even sturdier than the rover.

"Those bastards," Mair growls. "They must have us tapped. No other way they could've known we'd be traveling this route. _Nobody_ comes this way anymore."

"Unless there's a spy giving reports." No-chin Carl makes this observation, seeming unaware that as the only non– family member in the vehicle, he's most likely casting aspersions on himself unless one of Brittany's crew did it—

This is making my head hurt. I feel like I'm one big crackling box of crazy, and suddenly, I wonder if this is Unit Psych stuff, if I'm delusional and already locked up in the Corp asylum, medicated within an inch of my life. Certainly I feel paranoid— the world I used to live in doesn't make sense anymore. But lunatics don't wonder if they're mad, do they? Isn't it always the rest of the world that's off its nut?

Jor shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. I'll kill her myself before letting the Gunnars get their hands on her."

Kill… who? _Me?_ Frag that. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

"Nobody said anything about that." It's Sam, speaking quietly but firmly, from all the way in the back. "That's not part of the plan."

But before anyone can respond, the rover rocks, and I close my eyes, not wanting to see how the countryside slings back and forth as the back tires fight for traction with the Gunnar vehicle slamming us repeatedly in the side. The reinforced doors seem to be holding, but Brittany is really being battered around. I spare a glare for the careful way she's shielding Marley with her upper body, and then I'm smashed face-first into the front seat. When I right myself, hands braced, my nose smarts, eyes are watering, and I feel a trickle of hot blood running over my upper lip.

"She's bleeding," Marley says, and I don't understand the rising note of hysteria in her voice.

Hate driving. _Hate_ it. I'm remembering more than I want to about physics: drag and inertia and the momentum of, say, the human body when jettisoned from a moving vehicle.

"Open the roof," Jor barks to his mother, who starts manipulating levers, then the panels part overhead, which seems highly ill-advised, given that there are people trying to kill us, for reasons incomprehensible to me.

"Get those bastards, Ma."

The old woman looks insane as she pushes to her knees. Her white hair streaming in the wind, she activates another series of controls, and I hear the sound of weapons being readied. She's laughing as she fires, and I have the answer to my question; they do still manufacture live rounds, at least on Lachion. I hear metal hit metal, like a mudsider cannon from some old war holo, and a chunk of their side armor panel blows wide, striking the plain in a cloud of dust.

So fragging cold, the wind's drilling through me. I hear Kurt chanting something low and eerie, like an alien prayer, and the Gunnars retaliate, launch a small round device from side turrets. I don't know what to expect here on Lachion, but it strikes the windscreen and detonates in a low hum that appears to play hell with the rover's engines.

"Oh, that's not good," No-chin Carl says, ever helpful.

The rover sputters, turbines dying. Our velocity decreases, then we're hit hard. I feel their grapplers lock down, and they pull back, towing us to a halt.

"Anything I fire's going to hit us, too. The rover can't take any more damage and still carry us out of here." Mair snarls a word that I didn't think old ladies knew. "We'll have to defend," she continues. "If they want us, make them work for it."

Jor simply nods and metal shutters come down over all the windows and I see reinforced steel plating shoot up, covering the doors. The only opening's the roof, and I don't completely understand why they're not sealing that, too.

"Air," Brittany tells me quietly. "The rover doesn't have life support. There are too many of us in here. If we did that, all the Gunnars need to do is wait. We pass out; they cut their way in. Take you, kill the rest of us."

I'm not sure that's a bad solution, actually. Brittany narrows her eyes, and I offer her a very sweet smile. Okay, not Sam. I like Sam. I can't see anything, but I hear the sound of feet tramping over the rocky ground. There's at least six of them, presumably combat trained. I hear the thunk of climbing feet.

Brittany pushes Marley toward the back, and Sam makes room between himself and Kurt. Somehow, that pisses me off as much as anything that's happened. "She's _bleeding,_" the girl repeats, looking between Sam and Kurt as if expecting them to do something. "For Mary's sake, keep her out of the wind."

"I hope you can fight," Quinn calls from the back. "Seeing as they're going to hit you first."

She's right. I'm in the second row of seats, right below the gap.

"You better," I tell her. "Because I'm between you and what's coming. When I die, guess who's next, bitch?"

Mair laughs; it's an ugly, grating sound, and I'm not glad I caused it. When she regards me with an approving eye, that's somehow worse. Wordlessly, she hands me a weapon, seeming to assume I'll know how to use it. I turn it over in my hands. I was expecting something more Wild West out of these crazy mudsiders, but this is a standard shockstick— basic principle, hit the bad guy as hard as you can while simultaneously administering a powerful charge that will short his brain pan.

Only one person climbing— why would that be? I heard others approaching… that doesn't make sense. Send one at a time to a small opening that's easy to defend? My internal alarms are all going off even before—

There's a low whine as the Gunnar lobs something down between the open panel, and just an instant before it detonates, I hear Marley screaming. Instinctively I put my face beneath Sam's heavy overcoat, as I identify… gas grenade. Shit, I didn't even know they made these anymore. Frag this, my eyes stream with tears as I pull myself out of the rover. They don't want me dead; I know that.

That's the one thing I'm sure of, these Gunnars, they're not going to kill me, whatever they do to the rest of this motley bunch. I land hard on the hood of the rover, roll off onto the dirt, and the thud takes the wind right out of me. I can still hear Marley moaning, and Mair curses with a fluency that I've only heard in starports on the rim.

Jor is ominously silent, and the rest of the crew scrambles out after me. Except for Brittany. She's shepherding the girl with an excessive tenderness that makes me want to bury my foot in her ass. Was I ever like her? I don't think so. Life… never gave me a chance to be soft. And maybe, if I'm honest, I'm a little jealous— not of Brittany, she's an asshole, but because nobody ever tried to take care of me like that. Not even Kai.

Outside the vehicle, Carl talks quietly with the Gunnars, smiling. I realize he wasn't being stupid earlier; he was boasting. He's wearing a rebreather and a mildly apologetic expression.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience," he tells me, as if my luggage has been misplaced on an interstellar voyage. "The Gunnars pay substantially better, and I think, given all the statistical data, you'll agree with my assessment. It's the best possible outcome for you to sign on with them."

Doing _what_?

It seems as if there isn't going to be fight. The gas has thoroughly demoralized the Dahlgrens— but I don't know; I feel like busting some heads on principle. I'm bloody tired of being dragged around, here to there, without a word of explanation. And it's been like that a long damn time, nothing's been right since Kai died, and I am _sick _of it.

Mair chooses that moment to stagger from the vehicle; she stumbles, falls, eyes livid with grief. But as she pushes herself upright, more will than strength, she growls to Carl, "Better to die on your feet than live on your knees. You spineless sack of shit."

I somehow know that Jor's not coming out of the rover under his own power. Maybe the gas affected him different than the rest of us. But whatever, why ever, he's gone, and Marley weeps against Brittany's shoulder. Mair, with her wild eyes, looks like the living embodiment of the old Furies, come to reap a man's soul. I'm a little afraid of her, and everyone falls back, as she surges toward the Gunnars. For a moment, I think she'll rend them limb from limb single-handedly.

Carl glances to me in appeal, as if I have some power in this insane tableau. Then I realize I do.

"Frag you." I answer his look in Marley's time-for-tea tone.

And it takes him a moment to process the disparity of the words from the sweetness in my voice. The Gunnars look like killers, all of them. Big men, hard-eyed, well geared, and ready to throw down. That's fine.

So am I.

I'm Santana Lopez, and I have had _enough._

**"Lopez," Brittany hisses. "Kurt can't fight, Sam won't. Are** you crazy?"

That leaves me, Mair, Quinn, and Brittany, if she'll weigh in. Marley is a nonfactor, as she's still sniveling.

So yeah, I guess I am. After all this time, you would think I'd have earned a better death, but at least I'm going out swinging. I test the weight of the shockstick in my hand, and the Gunnars share a look among themselves, like some hive-mind critter, before they burst out laughing. I'm pretty sure these assholes are related, too. What is it with this fragging backwater planet?

"Oh, Ms. Lopez, do be reasonable—" Carl says, as I sprint for him, duck a half-assed grab from one of his goons, open-hand-smash the bridge of No-chin's nose, then come down hard on the backswing upside meatwad's head. _Yeah, asshole,_ that's _how it's done_. I smell the faint scent of sizzling skin as he crumples, the shockstick throwing blue sparks. Its live hum in my hands proves to the other five that I'm dead serious, and suddenly they realize they've got a fight on their hands.

It's a mistake people have made before. Because I'm small, they assume I'm also spineless, that I won't have the guts to back up the shit I talk. Carl shrieks like a woman, his nose spurting like I've cut his jugular or something.

"He's bleeding." Marley moans. "Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace, what have you _done_?"

Everyone sort of freezes and shares a look of unilateral horror. And I don't understand. It's just a damned bloody nose. I've got one, too. What's the big deal? But I use the time to make myself scarce, as his men rally, swinging slow because they're so big. They connect, and I'm going down, not in a good way. I don't have the strength to go one-on-one with any of these guys, but I'm betting my brain against theirs. These _nulls_ don't know how to fight women; it's a different game, believe me.

As I dive between the legs of a big Gunnar, I see Mair wind up and slam her shockstick hard as she can between the V of another guy's thighs. Falling, he makes a noise that I can't say I've heard a human utter before, sort of like I imagine a puppy would sound being put through a juicer. He curls up on his side, covering those extra-crispy genitals with his palm, then she's after No-chin Carl. Guess a broken nose isn't satisfactory recompense for her loss. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes— that's for damn sure. And huh… for some reason the remaining Gunnars don't want to mess with Mair— they leave Carl to take his thrashing— and that has them hounding me. I evade a clumsy grab with a feint left, then I sprint for the rover.

Just like that, we've got a fair fight on our hands.

I'm not sure they want me alive anymore, but that's all right because they've got to catch me first. I use the rover, rounding it, then doubling back. If they think I'm going to stand still and take my beating, they're the crazy ones. It's a childish tactic, but it buys me some time as Brittany shakes her head, glares at me, and throws a sloppy roundhouse. She gets stomach-slugged twice in rapid succession and doesn't even stumble. Making a second lap, I decide she's one tough son of a bitch and make a mental note never to gut-punch her. I'll go for the eyes instead.

Midfight, Brittany glares at me, and for that sin, takes a solid uppercut to the jaw. I laugh out loud, starting to enjoy this. Shit, the two behemoths have figured out my little game, and this time, they anticipated my turn. My timing's off, but I dive between them, roll, and come up behind Sam, who regards me pleadingly. Don't know what he's asking, no breath to inquire because I've still got them on me and no way to shake them.

Brittany can hold her own, but I have to deal with this somehow—

_But not alone._ Leaping from atop the rover, Quinn drops down on one of the flagella tailing me. She isn't a huge woman but she's muscular, and seventy kilos, landing hard, will flatten even a big guy if he's not braced. Her shockstick hums as she clubs him efficiently, although one hit really would've done it. Still, I can't help admire her artistry; he's going to have quite a nice pattern in minor burns, assuming he's not brain damaged by the time she's done.

I turn just in time to see Brittany land the telling blow. The other guy's head snaps round, flecks of blood and spit spewing from his open, rubber-lipped mouth. They did it the old-fashioned way: no shocksticks, no finesse, just slug it out until someone falls over. In a one-on-one fight, I'm guessing that's rarely Brittany. And probably because she's bleeding from a split lip and has what looks to be a nice shiner swelling on her left eye, Brittany sinks her boot into the guy's ribs, hard enough that even_ I_ wince.

That leaves just one standing, against all of us, so I figure it's safe for me to stop running. He seems to realize that around the same time, nearly collides with me, then raises his hands, palms up, in a symbol of peaceable intentions.

"Truce?" he asks, and I realize it's the first time I've heard one of them speak. "The Gunnar clan would like to step back from this particular investment. It seemed like a good opportunity but the start-up costs"— he gestures at the fallen—" are prohibitive."

"They killed my boy." Mair finally rises, stiff and weary, from the broken body of her former financial advisor. Although I'm not a medical officer, I'm pretty sure Carl's not getting up. Ever. "I want them all executed, Brittany. Here. Now. Every last one."

"The gas is nontoxic!" The Gunnar defends himself, sounding desperate. "He must've experienced an allergic reaction. Swear it's nonlethal, the rest of you are fine."

The doc hovers nearby, not quite wringing his hands in dismay, but it's close. I wonder if Brittany surrounds herself with pacifists and untried boys for a reason. Make herself look better by comparison, maybe? I smirk as she narrows her eyes on me. God help me, but I love the fact that I can taunt her silently, even with this shit going on.

"Thank you," I say softly to Quinn, while the rest wait to hear what Brittany is going to say. I know she's thinking things over, weighing factors of which I, in my almighty ignorance, am unaware.

She shrugs. "You got balls, bitch, even if you're dumber than a bag of hammers. We'll be lucky if we don't die today."

Have to laugh at that, and damn me if I'm not starting to like her, even if she hates my guts. I'm glad she's on my side. Sort of.

"No." Sam speaks into the silence. He's been circling among the bodies or soon-to-be-bodies, administering treatment. "Carl Zelaco betrayed an honorable contract with clan Dahlgren for the hope of financial gain. While clan Gunnar pursued this investment"— he glances at me as if I'm a walking, talking stock certificate—" with regrettable vehemence, they intended no harm to clan Dahlgren, save financial embarrassment. A life for a life; it is fair frontier justice."

Brittany surprises me by nodding— I guess Sam functions as her conscience. God knows I didn't sense anything like one while we were jacked in together. Mair hisses, and I half expect her to fly at Sam. I even step in front of him, although honestly I don't want to take this old woman on. She is fragging scary. But then Marley surprises me with a firmness I hadn't expected of her:

"He's right," she states. "Let's go. We still have business to discuss." Right now, there's a resemblance to Jor in the set of her mouth, and her red-rimmed eyes shine with a hard light, although that may be the way the setting sun reflects in her pupils.

"I will _not_ forget you," the Gunnar clansman says. And yeah, he's looking at me.

I give him my best grin. "Nobody ever does."

All this time, Kurt has been staring up at the sky, as if he lives in a world the rest of us simply cannot perceive. He's dreamy-vague, golden curls and sapphire eyes, a fey, graven look that gives his features an inexplicable purity. Now that I study him closer, I realize he's not young so much as ageless, his face untouched by time or worry. There's a certain kind of madness in his face, as if he cannot care for anything enough to be moved by it, and I have to look away. But he draws my eyes back as he speaks.

"We should go," he says quietly, expressionlessly. Studying the angle of the sun. "If we hope to reach the compound by nightfall. They're coming."

"Shit." For once, Brittany seems to speak for all of us.

**"They who ?" **

It's like the tenth time I've asked, but no one's answering me. Instead they're rushing to and fro trying to get all the wounded loaded into the Gunnar Landcruiser. The dead have already been dumped unceremoniously into the cargo space in back, and it shakes me down to my bones, the way Marley accepts that.

If she knows she can't afford to indulge in grief, moan and whimper and sob on Brittany's shoulder, it can only be because she knows something really bad is coming, something that will require all of us, functioning at our peak, to survive it. My breath puffs out smoky like a devil's sigh, and I'm shivering all over. Their silence is frightening me more than anything I've ever known.

"We've done everything we can here," Brittany says finally. "All aboard, we've got to make tracks."

"We'll never stay ahead of them," Marley answers in a monotone. "There isn't a land vehicle fast enough, and they can pry off armored plating—"

I realize it's not resolve buoying her up. She's numb with despair, and I know this is my fault even if I don't understand what's happening entirely. But the others are too accustomed to listening to Brittany to heed the girl's objections. One by one, they climb inside, and the Gunnar takes his place at the wheel. It's close, not meant to carry this many, and so I wind up on someone's lap. Not surprisingly, Brittany holds Marley, carefully although not possessively. I'm figuring out she's like a little sister to her. Maybe if I had a sister, she'd treat me like that, too.

I glance down at Quinn, who rolls her eyes. "You're so not my type," she tells me, although she does wind her arms about my waist, probably to keep me from hitting my head. "Scrawny little bitch."

"Dahlgren compound is closest," the Gunnar murmurs, presumably laying in the course as his fingers fly across the consoles. "We'll make for it and pray."

Kurt pauses in his low chanting. "Already on it."

"Would someone please tell me what's coming?"

"You called them," Marley tells me, pale green eyes eerie in the half-light. "With the blood. They live in the caves and only come above to feed, they'll descend in hordes…"

Before I can erupt and start pulling her hair out in sheer frustration, Sam elaborates. "They're a native Lachion life-form, one of the few things that seems to have thrived here—" He gestures, and glancing between the miniscule gap in the plated panels at the barren plain, I can see why survival might be difficult. "Largely because the creatures eat anything that moves…"

"Or doesn't move," Mair adds, cheerful as a death's-head.

Sam continues as if he hasn't been interrupted, as if he's giving a lecture, and we ought to have holo-recorders fixed on him, lest we forget something important later. "In some regards they are akin to _Nyctosaurus gracilis_, from the Upper Cretaceous of western Kansas. That was part of Old Terra," he adds, seeming to notice that some of his audience look blank.

"There used to be great herds on Lachion," the old woman tells me. "Bison. We cloned and raised 'em here. We didn't know about the Teras then. Didn't know why nobody had developed this world. It seemed like hard work but doable."

"But you can't see them coming," Marley says in a reed-thin voice. I see Brittany rubbing her back, her expression as soft as I've seen it.

"Just hear their wings."

Now I've got this image of these flying things, mouths full of jagged teeth to rend, talons to pry the metal off the Landcruiser, and leathery wings that carry them faster than anything can move on the ground. Plus, you can't see them coming. And _this_ is better than my cell, better than Psych Officer Newel? Maybe. Despite myself I shudder, but Quinn doesn't stroke my back comfortingly.

Instead she says, "And you called them down on us, dumb-ass."

"Er, yes." The doc looks discomfited. "The Teras are natural hunters, and they've evolved a very complex camouflage mechanism that approximates invisibility. True invisibility is impossible, naturally, but—"

"Quiet." Brittany holds up a hand, and everyone in the vehicle stops breathing. Or damn near. Over the rumble of the Landcruiser, I'm pretty sure I can make out the faint sound of wings. To make that kind of noise, there must be—" Hundreds," she says, after a moment. "And closing fast. Will this heap go any faster?"

The Gunnar shakes his head. "Got her wide-open right now. I've got their heat signatures on-screen, and I figure our paths are going to intersect a good ten minutes before we reach the compound."

"They'll be on us in less than four minutes," Kurt informs us. Nobody asks him how he knows that or how he was able to sense the Teras stirring in the first place. I'm sick of asking questions everyone else already knows the answers to.

"Powering up the shock fields." Brittany flips a few switches, and I can hear a new hum in addition to the engines and the ominous rush of wings growing ever closer. Through the seams between panels I can see that the light is going, and I wish that didn't fill me with such inexorable dread.

"That'll deter them a little while." The Gunnar's knuckles gleam white where he's gripping the steering console a little too tightly.

His brothers are starting to come around, some of them. The one Mair whacked in the jimmy asks, "What the hell are we doing with Dahlgrens, bro?" Then pauses, registering the sound: "Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace, we got Teras incoming?" He levels angry blue eyes on me. "You're a hex, lady, dark luck, powerful bad juju, ken?"

"Only to people who try to kidnap me," I tell him sweetly, and Brittany snorts, so I feel obliged to add, "Or rescue me…" And then Quinn makes a _pfft _sound. "Or who travel with me…" My gaze sweeps around the darkened interior, trying to find an ally, but nobody will hold my eyes more than two seconds, it seems. "Fine, frag you all, I'm dark juju, bad luck, and you're all doomed."

"I don't think you're bad luck," Sam says, touching my shoulder lightly. "I think you're the best hope we've had since the Corp bought out and shut down Clericon Stellar twenty turns ago."

Before I can ask what the hell he means, something thumps hard against the roof, slinging the Landcruiser sideways. I almost hear something, just above the range of human hearing, but Kurt flinches, trembling visibly, and I can see a thin trickle of blood seeping from his nostrils. Something… sonic about these Teras, and poor Kurt with his hypersenses, their screams hurt him? Well frag me, that's… really… not good.

The shock fields hiss as bodies hit them, and I smell the obscene odor of frying meat. But each time the power surges, the engines splutter, and the Gunnar finally says, "Turn 'em off, Brittany. We're going to stall out. There's just too many of them, and they're overloading the systems."

Mair says softly, in praise, "You bought us some time."

"It'll be enough." Marley lifts her head from her shoulder long enough to deliver this vote of confidence. "Britt never lets us down."

_There's always the first time,_ I think sourly, and am rewarded with a glare.

"Hard part's going to be getting from the Landcruiser into the compound," the Gunnar says, fighting with the steering column now. I can tell that only his raw physical strength is keeping the 'cruiser from being towed off course. But he's tiring; I can tell that, too. "Unless you've remodeled according to my recommendations since the last time I was there."

Mair's expression seems to indicate she didn't want to take advice from a Gunnar, a fact that we're all going to regret before much longer. But I'm distracted by the way Kurt covers his ears, shaking uncontrollably. Once I'd have thought he was weak, terrified, maybe having a seizure, but now I know it's agony, pure and simple. He isn't human. I'm suddenly positive of it. He's more than a savant, and people are treating him like he's furniture, subhuman, not worthy of their regard. Even the doc, who by certain sworn oaths, _should_ give a shit, doesn't seem to.

Kneeing Quinn in the chest, I crawl over the seat, pushing my way back between Gunnar brothers until I reach Kurt. He regards mrs, eyes wide and blank, tuned to the frequency that seems to be liquefying his brain. It's not just their screams of pain; he can her everything, their calls to one another, their rage. Hunger. What it must be like, experiencing that, I cannot begin to imagine, but it makes him like me, alien in his way.

And for that I want to help him.


	4. Chapter 4

_**GRIMSPACE**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or Any of the Sirantha Jax series by Ann Aguirre that this is based on.

Her next Jump, may just be her last.

_**CHAPTER 4**_

___**"What can I do?"**_

__Kurt doesn't seem to see me, let alone hear the question, so I take his hand in mine, and it's cold, frighteningly so. If someone doesn't do something, He's going to die. Too many fragging people have bought it because of me. I'll be damned if it's going to happen again.

_Think, Lopez._

For a minute, nothing comes, then–okay, maybe it's a stupid idea, but it's the only one I've got. If one sound is killing him, maybe another pitch will cancel it out; I just have to find the right one. Watching his face, I start singing, running the scale in "ahs," and everyone else turns to look at me as if I'm insane. Maybe I am.

But when I hit and F toward the lower end of my range, Kurt responds. His fingers wrap around mine, and he nods. He still can't speak, no more than he could articulate his distress when the Teras came, but thats helping, so I sing louder. Though I have decent pitch, I'm not trained, so my lungs are starting to burn from holding the note.

Brittany raises a brow at me. "What the frag are you doing?"

I don't pause to answer, but Quinn figures it out. "saving a life, you brainless hump." With that, she adds her voice to mine, finding the note after a few false starts.

And then one by one, the rest of the vehicle joins in. The Gunnars are all tone-deaf and just succeed in making racket, but Mair and Marley hit the right one on the first try. Brittany is the last, and I think it's more aggravation that it was my idea than lack of desire to help Kurt. I honestly think they just didn't notice. I don't know why that should be, why they pay so little attention to him, but I'm going to find out.

"Lights of the compound ahead," the Gunnar says. "We can't stay in the vehicle; they'll pull it apart. Do you at least have fields installed?"

"The entire perimeter can be electrified, plus all building exteriors," Mair answers. "We have that capability remotely, and the fields extends twenty meters."

"So you can turn it on after we make it inside the fences?"

The old woman nods.

"Well, it'd be better if you had an outbuilding big enough to drive the Landcruiser inside, like I _advised _you, so we wouldn't need to run…but that'll do."

"We were getting around to it," Mair says tightly.

"That wouldn't help with so many of them on us." Brittany sounds grim. "They'd just hold on, then we'd have them chewing us up inside when we tried to disembark."

"Once we're safely parked, you could fire up the shock fields on the Landcruiser without worrying about stalling," The Gunnar points out, and I'm surprised to see Brittany concede with a nod.

"If they damage the 'cruiser, with too many panels gone, the fields won't work. Necessary connections ripped out." And the Gunnar nods at Brittany's words.

Holding the note almost distracts me from what's going on outside the vehicle. I can feel it rocking, and the metal plates scream as the Teras pry at them. I don't think I've ever been this scared in my life, and I'm starting to feel faint from the tiny, rare gulps of air I'm permitting myself to keep Kurt among the living. Marley hasn't faltered; neither has Quinn, and I spare a smile for the both of them.

"Yes," he whispers. "I owe you my life." His fingers squeeze mine. "It's all right," he adds, louder. Stronger. "I've constructed the sound barrier myself now, using your voices, and I'm holding it inside my head."

"So here's the plan," the Gunnar says. "We drive inside the first set of fences. When I park, I fire up the shock fields. Mair activates the compound defense grid. Some of the are going to avoid the shock fields, that's a giver. We're going to have to run like hell toward the nearest outbuilding and pray."

"No." Mair shakes her head. "You know they won't return to the caves until they've fed."

"Then what do you suggest?" Brittany sounds as if she's at the end of her patience.

Mair closes her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them, it's like she's another woman entirely. "A sacrifice."

And no matter who asks her, that's all she'll say.

One of the back panels finally rips away and I have the sense of things swarming, although I can't _see_ them, and my flesh crawls. I hear the sound of something swiping, reaching, and No-Chin's corpse seems to fly back as if animated, and then I can her the grotesque sound of bones snapping, the wet sound of the Teras devouring their prize. The wind howls through the Landcruiser, so cold, so dark now, and an endless night full of slavering fiends.

I don't realize I'm trembling until Kurt cups his other hand over mine. "Don't worry," he whispers. "I am your _shinai _now. I will not let anything happen to you."

_My what?_

Before I can ask, the side panel gives, and the Gunnar who told me I'm bad luck, well, he goes screaming, arms flailing, face contorted. I'll never forget the way he looked as the Teras pulled him out. Perhaps I am dark luck after all.

"Coming into the compound," the Gunnar says, toneless. Hell of a way to watch your brother die. "Cruiser's too damaged for shock fields to fire. Whatever you have in mind, clan Dahlgren, do it now, or none of us are going to make it out of this alive."

"Clan Dahlgren sacrifices to ensure its own perpetuity." I'm not altogether sure what she means until she bounds out of the Landcruiser, no longer old in the deportment, and somehow, she's sprinting with preternatural speed. I can smell the copper where she's cut herself, and it's an irresistible lure. Clan leader, warrior, whatever else she is, Mair isn't merely an old woman. I've never known _anyone _ who could move like that. I want to ask, but now isn't the time.

I sense the Tears wheeling away from the vehicle and giving chase to Living bleeding prey. Marley screams, "Grandmother!" and Brittany has to carry her away, as the rest of us make use of the time she's bought us so dearly. It's the bravest and most terrible thing I've seen.

We run, heads down, conscious that the Teras could return at any time. Kurt still me by the hand, and he yanks the door wide, pushing me inside before entering himself. I don't understand his new care for my safety, then I'm awed, humbled, to hear the live hum of the compound defense grid activating. She's out there with them, being torn to pieces, and dying, she saved us all.

Tear stand in my eyes, and Marley's still screaming, fighting Brittany with fists and frets, and She just hold her, gentle but implacable, refusing to let her back out. She's lost everyone today – her father, her grandmother. And a lot of it is _my_ fault. I'll be lucky if she doesn't try to kill me at some point. I no longer find Marley's histrionics ridiculous. Whatever her eccentricities, Mair was a woman worth mourning.

Dropping to my knees, I take stock with a glance. Of his clan, only the Gunnar chief made the run. They were all big men. Slow. Our crew seems to be presents, although the doc's blood-spattered and collapses against the wall as if he may never move again. We're in a storage building. I see crates stacked up against the wall, tools. Quinn looks angry, which is pretty much on par. Even though I don't know shit about Lachion, I know it's not safe to go back out there. There's no guarantee all the Teras were outside the perimeter when the defense grid came up. We need to hole up and let them fry, trying to return to the caves.

I hope there's some food in here. Fragging starving. It seems like forever since I stuffed that square of chocolate into my face, and before that, I hadn't eaten all day.

Maybe that's an irrelevant thought, I don't know. But it's how I function. The part of me that feels unworthy, wounded, totally shaken by everything that's happened, I shuffle her to the back because she's not helping me deal. And the Santana who steps up, well, she's a pragmatist.

And she's hungry.

_**Also, I need to pee.**_

__But I can't see anything like san facilities in this corrugated steel box. Quinn has already started to rummage through the crates, looking for something useful. The main house, with all associated amenities, is probably deeper inside the compound, but I don't think any of us want to go back out there until the drones have a chance to scout around and see what might be lurking in the dark.

Kurt has settles down beside me, almost as if he's awaiting my orders, and Brittany still holds Marley, who appears to have collapsed entirely. Rest is probably the best thing for her right now, but her breath still hitches as children's do when they've cried themselves to sleep. Leaning against the wall, I watch Quinn rooting around, tossing out items that may be useful. So far, she's found blankets, torch-tubes, and what looks like emergency rations.

I snag one, tear the foil open, and yep, it's olive green paste that tastes like nothing you'd ever voluntarily eat, and yet simultaneously contains a whole day's worth of necessary nutrients. _Why the hell can't they manufacture these in choclaste? _Making a face, I hand one to Kurt, who accepts it and downs his without shuddering. Brittany is watching me, so I pass a pack to her as well. Even if I don't like her, I'm not going to starve her while she can get her own. She's still got Marley as deadweight.

Quinn grabs a couple more and hands them out to Gunnar and Doc, who opens his eyes reluctantly. Everyone eats in silence. It's hard to know what the hell to say after a day like we've had. The Gunnar just sits like a small mountain, probably thinking about his brothers.

But then I remember I had a couple questions that just won't keep and glance at Brittany again. Seems like she'd know. "How did Mair–"

She pitches her voice low. "She was a first-rank chi-master, one of the last."

I blink at that. "No shit?"

Brittany gives me a withering look. But I didn't even know they existed. All I've ever heard is stories – Old Terra monks, who could adjust their breathing, stop their hearts. The greatest of them could completely control their chi, resulting in superhuman feats. Like the burst of speed Mair summoned when we needed it most.

"Did she have a student?" I ask. And her gaze goes to the girl sleeping in her arms. Well, of course. Everything seems to come back to Marley.

I sigh. What can I possibly offer to counterbalance her loss? Why did she think I'm worth it? Hell, _I _don't even think so, and I'm generally the biggest proponent for the survival of Santana Lopez.

Nothing I can do about it, though, and so I turn to Kurt. He's been watching me almost in the same manner that he scanned the sky for things the rest of us couldn't see. It's a little unnerving, to tell the truth.

"So tell me about this _shinai_ thing."

And brittany laughs quietly. "That's right. He's yours now. You don't know how long I've waited for this day."

Call me cynical, but anything that makes Brittany happy cannot be good for me.

"I am now your _shinai_," Kurt tells me, but there's sharpness to his tone. "This means I will put your welfare ahead of my own and follow all your directives, except ones wherein you ask me to do harm. That, I cannot do, even for you."

_What the frag…?_

"Sounds an awful lot like slavery," I say.

Kurt studies me for a moment as if he isn't sure if I'm messing with him or not. "That is what _shinai _means in La'hengrin," he answers at last. And yeah, there's a definite edge in his voice.

"How can she be so traveled and yet so ignorant?" Quinn asks of nobody in particular, but I'm too busy glaring at Brittany to respond to the insult.

"You have to be out of your mind if you think I'm going to put up with keeping someone _enslaved._" Mary, I want to break her neck. I can't believe I've jumped, even once, with someone so monstrous. I need to scrub my mind clean with a wire brush, everywhere she touched it. Bitch. "No," I tell Kurt, shaking my head. "If there's a ceremony or something, let's do it because –"

His blue eyes burns as he claps his hand over my mouth. "Don't," he begs, although his gaze says something else entirely. "You cannot deny me, or I will die. The La'heng cannot exist outside the protection of another species. It is part of the legacy your people left us."

Godammit, before I can help myself, I glance to Brittany for confirmation. I fragging _hate_ that I keep doing that. But she's nodding. "Did you really think I run a slave ship, Lopez?" Even though she doesn't say another word, I can sense her disappointment. And maybe I have let her down. Because even though there's no liking between us, maybe there was a nascent respect.

"You're serious." Dumb-ass thing to say–of course she's serious, and suddenly I don feel ignorant. I have no idea who the La'heng are or why they need to be…_shinai._ Even mentally I shy away from the real word–slave.

"Yes," he answers quietly. "When humanity first visited La'heng, we did not greet them warmly. We killed all their delegations, rebuffed all attempts to establish contact. They correctly adjudged us a hostile alien race and took steps to civilize us."

I don't know how long ago this was, don't know anything about this– I have lived in an odd insular world, made up of Kai and my CO, who directed me where to jump and to whom I reported when I felt like taking a holiday. "What happened?"

Hate that I'm making him talk about it when it clearly bothers him. Deep down, I know I'm going to hear a tale of conquest and subjugation, and that it's another thing I can feel guilty for, although it's racial, not personal.

"They seeded our atmosphere with a chemical that dampened our ability to fight."

"RC-12," the doc puts in. "It's generally only used to sedate violent criminals. It had never been used on a global scale before."

"They took the La'heng bloodlessly," Kurt goes on, monotone. "And fed us more drugs to keep us compliant. They didn't teak into account our physiology. We adapt quickly, integrate changes. The RC-12 produced a new generation of La'heng young incapable of fighting, even to defend their own lives. We're helpless."

I'm starting to understand, and my stomach rolls over, full of that disgusting paste and burning shame. "So it was decided you each needed a…protector?" I can't make myself say "master," but that's what it means. What we've done.

Kurt nods. "At birth, we're bonded to someone, who ostensibly will safeguard us and treat us well. Since many of us have a flair for languages, we are sought after on board ships."

"You don't stay with your protectors for life?"

"Generally," he says. "But we can be inherited, like property. And if someone saves our lives, outside the family line to which we're bound, then _shinai _transfers to that new person, a sort of life link, I suppose."

"I got him from my great-uncle," Brittany says then. "But he's yours now."

_Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace._

"And if I refuse–"

"I'll die. It was decided that a quick death is preferable for any La'heng unfortunate enough to find himself without protection due to what might befall hime thereafter." Kurt regards me, mouth compressed.

Which explains why they were all studiously ignoring his distress. It doesn't make it more acceptable, but they all know what might happen if they intervened. And Brittany, who should've been looking out for him, probably couldn't tell what was going on, all the way in front.

I exhale in a tired rush. "Don't worry about that. I'll try to be a good…whatever. I'll watch your back and let you do as you please, okay? Can we think of it as friendship more than obligation?"

Kurt stares at me for a long moment. "Could you think of one to whom you are wholly subservient as a friend?"

_Guess not._ I'm suddenly exhausted and still need to pee.

_**"Do it outside," Brittany dares me. Mocking. I'd almost **_forgotten she could do that. "Go see if it's safe for the rest of us."

And for Mary's sake, that's the last straw, I just nod and make for the door. If that's what she thinks I'm good for, live bait, the doll you dangle into the cage to see if the monster's sleeping, the fragging _fine. _I don't see what happens thereafter, but she catches me just before I go out, spinning me back to face her. Marley's curled up on her side, where she presumably dumped her as she came scrambling after me.

"Are you crazy?" she demands.

"Yeah." I hold her look, and I'm just too tired to try to hide anything from her, not that I could entirely. She gets it all, one way or another, then with a muffled oath, she pulls me into her arms, gentle as she was with Marley.

My whole world's upside down as she runs her hands over my back. Brittany is just never, ever nice to me. I don't have any idea how long it's been since she found me on Perlas Station, but it seems like eternity. I can't remember not hating Brittany at this point; it's the on truth to which I cling.

"Let me go before I cut your boobs off," I tell her, then I wonder why I sound like that. Soft. Broken. A not-Santana voice.

"Will you just shag her already?" Quinn throws a torch-tube at brittany, hitting her in the side of the head with a satisfying thunk. The light comes on as it lands at her feet.

I think I love that woman. Because Brittany breaks away to glare at her, and I step back. "I was trying to keep her from killing herself."

"Sure you were." Now the doc's giving her hell. "And thats why you were finger-checking her scapula and vertebrae so carefully for possible injuries, too."

Can't help but snicker.

"I hate you all," Brittany growls. Her expression adds, _What'd I do to deserve this?_

It seems like Quinn registers that because she answers the implicit question. "Duh. You hired us out of Gehenna. That's where all the assholes hang out. _You_ were there, weren't you?"

"She makes a strong case," I admit.

Oddly enough, I feel better, less alone. I still need to pee, but I'm not willing to feed myself to the Teras to do so. We're all surprised to hear the Gunnar finally speak up; he's been quiet so long.

"We need to recall the drones, get a look at their security cams," he says. "If it seems clear, we can make a run for the house. Alternative is to play it safe, stay her until daybreak. It might be a long night, but at least we'll get where we're going."

At that Brittany nods and snags Marley's bag, rummages until she finds a remote. "Think this is it, let's have a look at what's out there."

She inputs a few commands, and about five minutes later, there's a metallic clang as the drones try to proceed through the closed door. Bright, they aren't. We open it just enough for them to pass through, the close it. Bolt it again.

Everyone watches as the Gunnar reviews the footage, grainy, low-tech stuff. But nothing seems to be moving out there.

"You think they're all dead?" Kurt asks.

I can see why that'd be a particular concern for him, seeing as he can't fight, at all. Not even monsters. He's reliant on _me_ now for his protection. And if that's not the shittiest twist of fate ever, I don't know what is.

"Hard telling. If they've all fed…" The Gunnar pauses, and I know he's thinking about his brothers, taken within the compound proper. "Then they might be nesting."

Brittany folds her arms. "It's choosing time. I'll have to take Marley. I don't think she's going to wake up for awhile, even if she does, she won't be fit to run."

Sam clears his throat. "Especially given the fact that I sedated her."

"We should wait," I say quietly. "It's stupid to go when we're safe enough here. We have blood all over us, so if there are any in the compound, they'll catch the scent."

"Daylight won't help us survive them," Kurt observes. "It'll just give us longer to feel afraid."

"They'll be wanting to return to the caves by then." For once, Brittany seems to be agreeing with me. "We have a better shot of everyone making it if we do wait."

The solution's simple, and I have to wonder why I didn't think of it before. "Got an idea. Sam, can I have your shirt?"

I'm not being a perv; he's just got the most blood on his clothing. After a few seconds' hesitation, he pulls it over his head, and I toss him back his coat. They each as I tie the sleeves around the first drone and push it outside. And the Gunnar nods like it's a sound notion–

But holy shit, I hear wings, and Kurt trembles, hands over his ears, since they must be screaming right outside the door. One of them slams hard against the reinforced metal, and I swallow, hoping they can't smell us throughout the building, that their claws aren't strong enough to get through these walls. I hear the sound of the drone being smashed to bits.

_Oh, Mother Mary,no, please don't let me have fucked this up._

I don't notice i'm rocking back and forth on my heels until Brittany puts a hand on my shoulder to steady me. "It was a good idea," she tells me softly. "We'd have died trying to get to the main house. We're safe in here. And this way, nobody secretly feels we're being too cautious." A little louder, she adds, "Going to call the Dahlgren First and have him spread word that there are Teras inside the perimeter." Shortly thereafter, she gets on the radio and does so.

Throat thick, I nod. I've just realized that if I'd gone outside to pee, well, what happened to the drone, that'd be me right now. She really did save my life. _Oh shit._ I have a smart-ass comment about being his _shinai_ on the tip of my tongue when, for probably the first time in my life, I hold it. Not because Brittany deserves something more sincere, although she does, but because what's been done to the La'heng just isn't something I should joke about. And at least I've caught myself before I can be an insensitive asshole.

"Thanks," I answer. I'm not just saying that because she complimented me. And by the shine of her eyes, she knows that.

She just shrugs, but it feels like an apology, as if she knows she pushed too far. It'll do. Quinn's watching us, and she just rolls her eyes, smirking. "Let's get some bio in place if we're staying the night," is all she says.

All she really wants is two empty buckets, and we argue a little bit. I finally say, "Okay, you must get off on guys watching you piss, then. I'm sorry, I didn't realize."

"Bitch." But she's smiling as she helps me rig a primitive setup of blankets on wire fastened to the shelving on either side.

I'm the first to test out the ladies' bucket and man, I think I have a peegasm when I finally let go, groaning. They are all smirking when I come out. I know they heard me, but whatever, dammit. _Can we try to be a little bit more grown-up? Please?_

Brittany seems to think about that, then shakes her head. But she grins at me. She's removed her jacket, tucked it underneath Marley's head. I dislike seeing the gentle side of her; makes her harder to hate, and I've been doing that so well. Doing my best to ignore both her and Kurt, who I swear is trying to piss me off with his attentive-slave impression, I walk past and drop down beside the Gunnar, who looks as sad as a human can without actually weeping.

"So what's your name?" I mean obviously its something Gunnar, but surely they don't just number the big lugs.

"Jake," he answers tiredly. "Jacobi." His gaze goes to Marley, and I wonder what's on his mind. "I'm going to have to marry her," he adds, when he sees me looking. He sounds about as pleased about that as I'd be to hook up with Brittany.

Really starting to like that glare, by the way.

"How come?" I think he needs to talk more than I want to know. And that's fine.

"Clan competition is fierce here," he tells me. "As I'm sure you've figured out. We have to race for new technology, resources. Everything. There's a definite Hierarchy, and we two have been at each other for the top spot for years now. That's why we went after you so hard. Couldn't let Dehlgren get the edge."

"How the hell do I qualify as either?"

"Commerce," he tells me. "Right now, the only source of trained jumpers is via the Corp. They control all trade, more or less, although they would deny that's their intent with their refusal to permit unaffiliated academies. Imagine the money that could be made if someone successfully created an alternative."

"You not only want to try and figure out what makes me tick, you also want me to train jumpers for you."

I've put the pieces together now. My disgrace on Matins IV possibly seemed like a hell of an opportunity. How often does a jumper wind up like that? Ordinarily they'd have no hope of turning one of us; part of our indoctrination is a "Corp for life" mentality. That's what No-chin meant when he said the Gunnars would pay more, and it'd be better for all concerned if I signed with them. Teaching….never even though of that. Obviously, the Corp has instructors, former jumpers, who choose retirement over burnout, and they impart what we need to know about grim space. We make our first practice jumps with them, all jacked into a test ship that simulates what we'll one day do all by ourselves.

He nods. "We could create new trade routes. Establish a free market, and it would help a lot of outposts, not having to pay Corp tariffs for their supplies. But Mother Mary, in one day, such losses…" Jake closes his eyes. "The only hope either clan has now is consolidation. We become Gunnar-Dahlgren, marry up, and combine our ranks, or we get wiped by the other clans."

"When shell freezes over," Marley says, slurred, sedated.

"Well, put on your over coat, sweetheart."

Hard to say who looks more shocked to hear that coming from Brittany.

_** The inevitable argument's postponed when Marley passes**_ out again.

Brittany pulls her up against her, a wise idea–sharing body heat since this shed lacks climate control. But everyone's regarding her speculatively, wondering what she has in mind. Being Brittany, in the face of such avid curiosity, she leans her head back against the wall, closes her eyes, and goes to sleep. Just like that.

Hits me then–that's a soldier's skill, being able to turn off and on. It's an invaluable talent, one that allows them to stand watch easier…but it takes years in the field to develop it, usually on rough assignments. I frown as I study her, trying to put the pieces together. She'd clearly a merc, and I'm willing to bet if I got a glimpse of her bare torso, she'd have some battle scars to show. Not that I want to see Brittany without a shirt, Mary forfend. But how does a Psi-sensitive stay hidden for so long? And she's clearly got some ability to control it, or she would be nuts by now.

There's something about that bugging me, some thought I had that would help me figure her out, but right now i'm just too tired to get a fix on it. As I'm sitting there, rubbing my hands over my arms absently, Kurt brings me one of the spare blankets. I wish it was a genuine kindness, but I can tell by his expression it's part of the whole _shinai _thing. No wonder Brittany was so glad to have it end–being served by someone who resents it with every fiber of his being, well, it kind of sucks. I mean, not the help. I'm glad of the blanket, and I wrap up in it with a murmured, "Thanks."

But the fact Kurt feels like he _has_ to wait on me. I hate that.

It's cold enough in here that I can see my one breath. With all the other stuff going on I hadn't noticed…but I gave the oc back his coat when I fed he is shirt to the Teras, and I'm freezing. Kurt stands for a moment, staring down at me. He's wearing a simple pair of trousers and pullover, so I don't know how his teeth aren't chattering.

Glance across the room and I find Quinn looking extremely pissed off, since she's sandwiched between Doc and Gunnar. "Say 'cream filling,' and I kill you. Seriously."

I muffle a laugh, but I manage not to say it. Somehow.

"You want me to…?" Kurt gestures at the others, huddled up.

And I hate even more that he feels like he needs to ask permission. Mother Mary, it's common sense. I scowl up at him. I am not personally to blame for what my race did to his, however long ago.

"Okay, you have to follow my directives, right?" At his nod, I continue," Then you're forbidden to do anything but what you want. And if you'd like to come down here so we can both get warm, do that. If _not_, do what the hell ever. Because I'm tired, and I am sick of this shit."

At this Brittany's eyes snap open, and now _she_ looks extremely pissed. "I can't believe I never thought of that."

Bitch was faking, so she wouldn't have to answer questions. She gives me a grin and closes her eyes again, while Kurt stands there, looking dumbfounded. "It would be very foolish for both of us to be cold," he says finally, and drops down beside me.

I get the feeling this is the first time anyone's said that to him. Hope it's easier on him, and me, too, for that matter. I'm not cut out to go around giving orders about every little thing. Too much of that, and I'd be killing him instead of watching his back.

"Good call."

He settles in beside me, shoulder to shoulder, and we wrap up in a second blanket. Takes a little while, but I can feel myself warming up, and as my body temperature rises, I get sleepy. _Gonna close my eyes for a minute…_

Next thing I know, I'm feeling _so_ good, not exactly sure where I am, and it doesn't matter because I'm toasty warm, lying in someone's arms. I nuzzle my nose against their throat, stretching luxuriously. I want to make love, soft and slow. My half-awake brain tells me it must be Kai, because she's the only one I ever slept with like this, and then the other half rouses and points out that's impossible.

My eyes snap open.

_Hey everyone, firstly, I'd like to say thanks to everyone who has been reading. The updates will be coming even quicker now that I'm out of school for the summer, also if you have any questions or just want to drop a line, review or you can visit my tumblr page at drummmergirl. _


	5. Chapter 5

_**GRIMSPACE**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or Any of the Sirantha Jax series by Ann Aguirre that this is based on.

Her next Jump, may just be her last.

_**CHAPTER 5**_

A torch-tube glows in the middle of the room, providing a little light. Enough to see that Brittany's face is right above mine, and she _knows_. The floor can open up to admit me now, thanks. At some point, she must've given Marley to Kurt and come to huddle with me herself, though damned if I know why.

"You were whimpering in our sleep," she whispers. "And jabbing with your elbow. Almost broke his nose."

"And you thought you could fix it?" I pitch my voice low because the other are all still sleeping, but I'm angry over her presumption, angry that I slept better in her arms than have since Kai died.

She shrugs. "If nothing else, I'm too big for you to hurt me." At my look, she adds, "Okay, too big for you to hurt _accidentally._"

And she doesn't need to say that I settled down as soon as she pulled me close. I _know_ I did; I can almost remember the dreams that made me restless, and I can almost see her resigned expression as she pulled me against her chest, wrapped her arms about me, can almost hear my own small sound as I relaxed like it's somewhere I'm supposed to be. I really _am_ insane. I remember Quinn mentioning she lost someone in the crash, and I want to know more. Does she blame me? Should she?

I don't even know the answer to that.

"Why do you hate me so much?" For a moment, I can't believe I asked. It's got to be the false intimacy, sound of other people breathing, lying in her arms in the dark.

"I don't…hate you." Her voice sounds gruff.

I gaze up at her face, trying to read her expression, defeated by shadows' fall. "Dislike me profoundly and intensely, before we ever met."

"Look, I'm not having this conversation right now. Go to sleep, Santana."

"Go to hell, Brittany." But I'm smiling as I say it.

As I doze off again, I'm pretty sure she says, "Been there, done that, and I'm keeping a spot warm for you, babe."

The next time I wake up, it's to hear:

"No. How can you ask me to _do_ this, Brit? It's monstrous and barbaric."

Great. I guess they're making wedding plans. My eyelids feel like they've got paste under them, and I am, mercifully, by myself. Maybe I dreamed that whole weird interlude during the night. _Please let me have dreamed it._

Because I don't want to carry the awareness that I fit nicely against Brittany's chest and that her heartbeat is a comforting way to fall asleep. I especially don't want to remember rubbing my face against her throat and liking it. I think I nee to kill her. For a moment, I try to imagine a giant rock landing on her, but I can't –

Mother Mary, I _am_ deranged. Because I can't bring myself to picture any real harm coming to her. In fact, it alarms me to think of losing her. When nothing else makes sense, she's rock solid. Inexplicably, I feel like I can count on her.

I'm defanged where she's concerned. Or something. It hurts when I press, a wound I didn't even know I had. I don't want to rely on her in any capacity. Mary knows, I've learned the hard way that nothing lasts forever.

"If you would stop thinking like a stupid kid for a minute," the Gunnar says, "you'd realize this is the only way to save both our clans."

_Oh smooth, Jake. That's the way to get the girl._

"I'm not a stupid kid…I just hate you! Which seems to be the best proof of my intellect that I could offer."

Wonder if that's how Brittany and I sound. If so, that'd be why people think we want to shag each other. And maybe they're not entirely wrong, since I can't deny she has a certain raw charisma. Regardless, I'm now convinced Marley's going to wind up a Gunnar. It's a foregone conclusion.

I climb out of my warm nest and start folding up the blankets. Someone's already been outside to empty the buckets, so I guess that means it's safe. Everyone seems to be here. Quinn, Doc, and Kurt are sucking on packets of paste, looking no more pleased than I'd be if I were eating one. All three are riveted on the funny little love triangle, funny because I don't think Brittany realized until now that all her protectiveness has created one ti-enormous crush.

Which makes me wonder how she missed it, being Psi and all. She can't seem to help rummaging around my head like its a jumble sale, but she has no clue what's going on with Marley? _Interesting._

Case in point, she turns to glare at me.

_**It's sputtering snow when we final emerge from the**_ storage shed, from what felt like endless night, into a white-grey morning. There's a lesson in that, I think. No matter how interminable something feels, there is always, always an ending. Sometimes that's good, and sometimes it's bad; sometimes it's a matter of indifference, and sometimes it's heartbreaking, and your life is never the same thereafter.

Brittany surprises me by holding up a hand as the others set off. I wait without protest, but not because of what happened last night. That's not it. _Is _it? She goes back into the building and brings me a blanket, wraps me up in it poncho style. I give her a half smile, not understanding the shift.

But I murmur, "Thank you," and we go along behind the others, her matching her strides to my shorter ones. The silence is oddly companionable.

Fried and fallen Teras bodies lie strewn all along the perimeter. They died in the night, trying to return to the caves, and in death they lose their camouflage. Dark and ugly, like something from a child's stories–it it difficult to believe something like this evolved naturally. The stench is dreadful, and more than once I swallow down bile that wants to become vomit, but I don't have anything to upchuck. The paste metabolizes quickly so your body receives the nutrients right away. And I chose not to eat it this morning; I'm hoping there will be something better at the main house.

"I haven't been fair to," she says, so quietly I almost don't catch it.

But she said it. I know she did. I actually stop walking. Pause and gape up at her. "You–"

"You heard me." Brittany scowls down at me, and I know she doesn't like saying it anymore than I would. "I'm going to do better."

Our eyes meet, and I notice for the first time that her eyes aren't simply blue; they possess silver flecks as well, a metal ring around the iris. She also has the most ridiculous lashes I've ever seen on a woman, a sharp contrast to her hard-hewn face. She's almost too rough-featured in fact, unless you focus on those long lashes. After that look, mustering a smart-ass response takes some doing.

"Well it'd be hard for you to do worse. Come on."

We start walking, and I increase my pace to catch up with the others. I don't want Quinn thinking I want private time with Brittany. Mary forefend.

I don't know what I expected, not like I had a chance to look around last night. But the compound seems to be a series of outbuildings along a path that leads up to the main house, a structure of old-fashioned stonework. The whole enclave is surrounded by intricate wire-and-steel fencing, crackling an electrical warning as we pass by.

As we near the main house, clansmen whose names I don't know come to meet us. They live in what I take to be apartments or longhouses nearby. Marley greets them and invites them inside. The rest of us trail in her wake, and I gaze around, surprised at the elegance of her home.

Floors are marble, walls are paneled, and if it's not real marble, real wood, then they still paid a fortune for such high-quality synth. It even rings true when I rap my knuckles on it in passing. They have Giovanni paintings and sculptures from the Sheng Dynasty, just before Taiwan was reclaimed by China, or so my spotty recollection of Old Terra history suggests. It's a gorgeous place, and I feel bad just walking on this rug. My shoes sink six centimeters, and who knows what's on them?

We proceed to a meeting hall that looks almost like a senate chamber. Marley proceeds to the podium, where a Speaker would ordinarily stand, and she does so with a dignity I wouldn't have expected. Once there, she advises her clansmen of the bad tidings with solemn poise, and in turn, the report some losses in the night. One day, she will be a woman of great strength, I think. Depressing to contemplate, when she reaches her prime, I will be quite old if I even survive that long.

"Leadership is what separates a principal clan from a weak one," she tells her people, once the initial shuffling has ceased. "And they will not yet listen to my voice on the Clan Council. lone, I cannot hope t hold the position of strength we have enjoyed. So it is with a heavy heart that I propose consolidation. In making a marital merger with clan Gunnar, we double our holdings, double our population, and double our resources. Hereafter, the clan lines will be joined and known as Gunnar -Dahlgren. I put the proposition to a vote, as it affects the way you live, as mush as me."

The rumble of voices greets her pronouncement, and I watch from my vantage near the back. I don't know how this impacts me, but I feel a peculiar tensions, studying her face. Glancing at the Gunnar, I see his investment in the proceedings. Both clans have lost so much. From what I can gather, they are taking a vote. A black bead means no, a white means yeas, and they pass around a dish. It is a remarkably elegant system for its simplicity. finally, a dark-haired man stands, having counted the tokens, spokesman by come tacit understanding or perhaps tradition.

"Rydal." Marley recognizes him with a nod.

"The vote is talked in favor of consolidation," he says with sad gravity. "We judge it preferable to a hostile takeover."

Although I am not sure, I guess that would involve wholesale slaughter of the clan seizing all assets and territories. Brittany catches my eye and nods. I feel like I've just sen the world change in some fashion this morning, and I don't understand the sensation. Lachion has never influenced the larger universe so far as I'm aware; these are mudsider politics, nothing that will make a difference.

Marley inclines her head, then fixes a pale green gaze on the Gunnar. "Have your First speak to mine; we have contracts to negotiate."

"My First died out on the Nejanna Plain," he tells her flatly. "It will take time to decide who should fill the breach."

You can almost see the sparks crackling between them, and I decide they're going to be bitching at each other longer that I really want to listen. Seems like I'm not the only one who feels that way because the Dahlgren clansmen trickle out in twos and threes, and even Doc shifts his weight on the balls of his feet.

I clear my throat. "Breakfast?"

Even though I direct the question to no one in particular, Kurt pushes away from the wall and beckons me. I fall in step beside him as he says, "I'll show you to the dining hall. There's usually something laid out for another hour or so."

"Communal meals?" I can't imagine the workload that mud mean for the cooks. Unless…"Do they have food processors?"

"The lesser clans, no. Some are astonishingly low-tech, but this one has done well. There are even bots in charge of cleaning and maintenance here."

That remark reminds me of my cell AI, and my mouth tightens. "Fantastic. Can we expect…Oh, that smells good."

Something sweet and smooth is brewing. I know the scent, I've had it once before –it's a hot drink that goes into your veins like pure chem, leaves you bouncing until you crash. I seem to remember it's highly addictive. There's also the aroma of honeyed pastries, fried s-meat, some kind of fruit, a sharp, succulent tang. We come into a larger open room with a couple of bots circulating, ostensibly keeping track of the food laid out on a long table. It's a well-lit space with windows on three walls, arrayed with round tables.

I make myself a sandwich out of the meat and the sweetbread while Kurt looks on in horrified astonishment. "I don't think you're supposed to…"

Shrugging, I say, "It gets the job done," and take an enormous bite.

Actually it's better than I expected, this blend of sweet and savory. He sighs and fastidiously selects some fruit. We've almost finished by the time the crew catches up with us. I'm drinking a cup of the dark, pungent stuff that will probably make me jittery; the taste is a little difficult to pin down, but it seems to have a trace of choclaste.

I don't know what happens next.

But as Brittany drops down in the chair opposite me with a smile, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to like it.

_**"You're serious," I say after hearing what they have in**_ mind.

Brittany nods. "That's the plan."

Doc looks faintly apologetic, as if he suspected what my reaction would be. And if he supposed I'd be horrified at the thought of a ten-planet tour, all in different quadrants, without scheduled R&R, well, he'd be right. That doesn't even factor in the expectation of recruiting unregistered J-gene carriers for our as-yet-fictitous academy. And what about the gray men hunting me? The minute I'm ret-scanned in any Corp way station, they're going to dispatch the nearest unit.

With some effort, I manage to make myself sound reasonable and not just stat ranting, my first impulse. "Look, first, you're talking about a really long haul. I've always had plenty of rest between jumps, and we don't know what our timetable will be. I have no idea what this could do to me."

Quinn leans forward, elbows on the table. "It kills you."

Something in her hazel eyes tell me she's talking about Rachel. And I won't go tree with her right now, though I know I'm not the reason the other jumper pushed herself so hard. She might've made her last flight as a sacrifice for me, but I didn't cause her total burnout. That decision was hers, and I'm just a convenient source of expiation.

"Everyone dies," I answer. "It's just a matter of when and whether you do anything worthwhile beforehand." But I don't take it any further, and a s far as I'm concerned, that's a confession. Instead, I ask, "What am I supposed to say anyway? 'Come join our renegade training facility. No, we don't have anything built yet, but we're working on that while I find the founding class."

"I expect you'll refine the verbiage." Kurt puts in. "That's part of your skill set, isn't it? It's why you were so good at making first contact."

And damn him, he;s right. I _do_ have a knack for swinging luck my way. Always have had–it's one reason I live through things that destroy very one around me.

"The grey men–" I start to object, but Brittany shakes her head.

"You won't be traveling first-class anymore, Santana. No more clean Corp stations."

Takes me a minute, but I get it. We'll be avoiding regulated routes, slinging out through the beacon nearest our objective, then scrambling signal so they can't tell where we've gone. There are a pretty low number of potential destinations at each point, so they may locate us via legwork, but that will slow them down some.

By keeping on the move, we stay one jump ahead of them. Literally. That means I won't have long to convince the unregistered resources to join up. It sounds crazy; the Corp is just so big. How can we imagine, even for a moment, that we might muster the resources to challenge its monopoly? Grimspace belongs to the Corp; it's an undisputed reality and has been, longer than I've been alive.

I realize I don't even know the details of how Clericon Stellar went down. They were a start-up like we hope to be, and they failed. If we're going to do this, I need to find out why. Information may be our only hope. there might even be other renegade jumpers, although I've heard nothing. Stand to reason the Corp wouldn't want that getting out. In fact, I bet I've been listed as officially flatline by now, so maybe they've called off the grey squads and are pursuing me through unofficial means.

As my training informed m, Corp intelligence tracks our jumps into grim space and there are pinch-faced men that go over flickering screens, trying to make numbers match up. Of course, in revealing this, they were reassuring us that we wouldn't get lost. But now it makes me wonder how many unsanctioned jumpers their data miners tallied and what happened to those people if they got caught.

Deep down I don't need to be told; I know. And unless I want it to happen to me, I've got to make this work. It's different life. No more am I Santana Lopez, Corp superstar. Now I'm just Santana, and I nee to prove myself all over again. Well, that's fine. I've survived worse.

I don't let myself think of Kai.

Glancing up from my silver mug, I find them all staring at me. "Okay." I glance at Doc. "What's the first plant on the list? And how did you find these sources? The Corp has tons of people constantly looking for the same thing. There aren't enough J-gene carriers to replenish the pool, based on burnout rate. In about ten turns, there aren't going to enough trained jumpers left to meet demand."

Sam pull out a silk screen data pad from his pants pocket and slides it across the table towards me. I hit the lower left corner to increase resolution so I can read, and first it's just a list of names: Marakeq, Gestalt, Freeley, Darengo, Collins, Sureport, Venetia, Lark, Belsev, Quietus. But after a moment, it sinks in.

"These are all either nonhuman or class-P worlds."

The Corp doesn't interfere on class-P worlds, where native technology falls somewhere between Bronze Age and pre-Industrial. Once we make first contact, we log our findings, the categorize the pant as primitive. In most cases, we could determine that much from orbit, but the Corp like to know the exact level of development: what sort of tools, customs, whatever we can learn in a single visit. After that, interstellar trade and travel remains restricted until such time as the citizens develop sufficient technology to come looking for us on their own.

Furthermore, those five class-P worlds? They're the one where I made first contact, but I can't imagine myself going back to claim sons and daughters, taking them away to the sky. How in the hell can I rationalize that? Culture shock might kill them, let alone grimspace.

"I don't think you grasp the scope of what Mair wanted to do," Brittany says then.

"So tell me."

"We aren't interested in spiriting away a couple of adventurous souls here and there," Sam explains. "We're looking to relocate whole villages–we'll cull them from remote ares where their disappearances simply goes unsolved. Certain anomalies in Old Terra history make me believe this may have occurred before. Ever heard of Roanoke?" I shake my head and he adds," No matter. You needn't examine all the evidence as I have. But this is why Gunnar-Dahlgren needs to be fixed to support a surge in population. We're not simply starting an academy, although thats a part of it."

"A colony of jumpers."

It's a mammoth undertaking. I don't ask if they have transport ships. Surely they must have passenger freighters somewhere on this rock, if they're serious. I don't know how I feel about that. Part of me thinks any breeding experiment is doomed to failure, And Mary knows we've seen bad results from this kind of thing, time and again. Purpose becomes twisted, and even a scientist with the best intentions, like Doc, gets swept up in the trappings of godhood. People shouldn't be pushed to mate to produce a certain type of child; I feel strongly about that.

"Nobody will be forced to do anything," Brittany says with a disgusted sigh. "Doc's isolated something that he Corp never saw. He's been going through medical records for years." Which doesn't quite explain how he found it, but maybe he's simply smarter than the average Corp scientist. Given that they're mostly bureaucrats these days, that hypothesis doesn't stretch my imagination much. "So there's another factor that determines how _long_ someone can handle grim space, and it's tied to the genotype."

She pauses, and we stare at each other. I feel as if she's willing me to make a mental leap, like she'll be disappointed in me if I can't put it together on my own. Then it dawns on me, a feeling of astonishment and awe–sunrise on Ielos. I sat in the thermal rooms with Kai once, watching slow red-orange break of light refracted over the glaciers. that's how I feel now.

"Not a bloodline," I say slowly. "You're looking to engineer a new species. You want human recruits from class-P worlds with strong J-gene strains. Alien DNA provides for longevity–compensates for burnout."

Brittany watches me, probably tracking my mental processes. She knows when I work it out. I dub that unknown factor the L-gene, whatever allows inhuman navigators to withstand grim space better than we do. A number of alien races can sense the beacons, but many despise us for our conquistador attitude, and the rest consider us food.

I say aloud for the benefit of the others. "You're going to make something new from mingling alien and human DNA. I'm right, aren't I?"

Quinn crams the last of a sweetbread into her mouth and says through the crumbs, "Hey, you're not as dumb as you look after all."

Maybe I was better off in my cell.

_**So we're going to Marakeq.**_

I wish I could say I enjoyed my time on Lachion, but with Jake and Marley growling like a pair of Anduvian ice otters in mating season, the rest of us just lay low. Barely, I manage to restrain a wince when I see that they're hauling crates of the nutri-paste, presumable to replenish our stores.

_Great. We'll survive any emergency. We'll just wish we hadn't._

The morning of our departure, I run into Marley outside the training facility. I've spent a lot of time in there because it gets the blood pumping, and pure physical exertion means I don't have to think. Something in her face tells me I'm not going to like what's coming, and I brace myself instinctively. It's a wonder she has confronted me before now; I feel responsible for a lot of her problems.

She doesn't say hello, merely looking me up and down with an air of indefinable scorn. I know what she sees, a woman past her prime with burn scars raying out from the edges of my workout gear, but I don't shift beneath the weight of her eyes. I just wait.

"I don't like you," she says at last. "But you're necessary to bring my grandmother's vision to fruition. Make no mistake, that's the only reason you're alive."

A bitchy reply springs to my tongue, but I swallow it down. I started trouble on this planet without knowing the rules. If I'd made a habit of being that careless on other worlds, I'd have died long before now, and this time, her family paid the price for my unsteady impulses. So I owe her, and she's entitled to hate me as much as she wants. Right now, I'm none too fond of myself, either. I have to look at myself in the mirror, knowing I lived where eighty-two died, one of whom was the woman I loved. Not to mention the loss of Miriam Jocasta, a diplomat of incredible eloquence and grace; she had been instrumental in achieving peace during the Axis Wars. The woman was an icon, and I killed her. Maybe. From the line of their questioning, the Psychs had certainly been inclined to think so, at any rate.

Frag, I wish I could remember.

"You want to go a few rounds with me?" I blot away the sweat and head back to the training mat without waiting for an answer.

Since she was Mair's pupil, she'll probably kick my ass ten ways from sunrise, given she's younger and faster and probably stronger, too. I'll take whatever she dishes out, but I won't hand it to her on a plate. She'll enjoy my beating more if she works for it.

Her smile seems tight somehow, wicked with anticipation. "Gladly. And should there ever come a day when I need you no longer, I'll see you dead."

There's no more talk after that. She positions herself in a half crouch that I've never seen before. No big surprise–my combat training was purely perfunctory, augmented by a propensity for starting trouble in spaceport bars. Mary, she's fast. She's clocked me between the eyes with the heel of her hand before I hardly register the movement, and while I'm reeling, she sweeps my legs out from under me.

I land hard on my back, exhaling with a huff, but I roll before she can smash her foot into my stomach. With a mental shrug, I grab her ankle and yank, thinking we'll take this fight to the ground, but she executes a neat maneuver that breaks my hold. The girl is good. After that, I submit to my beating; my fighting is clumsy as hell compared to hers. Sweat pours off me in rivers by the time she seems satisfied, maybe an hour later. I'm aching in places where I didn't even know I had muscles, and there's a deep bruise forming where she kicked me in the hip.

"If you'd wanted to, you could have taken those Gunnars by yourself."

She shakes her head. How I hate the fact that her perfect sheiks are simply flushed with a rosy glow. "I'd have need Grandmother's help, but it was the height of stupidity to fight in the open. There's a reason why we use ammunition that disables vehicles instead of causing bodily harm. There's a reason we fight out battles insides, safely in the confines of the clan arena."

"I didn't know," I say, humbled. "I'm sorry about your father. And your grandmother. As for seeing me dead, well. Give it time. This ten-jump journey might o the trick."

She seems torn between pleasure in that prospect and chagrin. Finally, she responds, "I hope not, for we'll still need you to head up our training academy when the program progresses to that point."

"Essentially then, you came to tell me that you are resigned to working with me to honor your grandmother's wishes."

For a moment, there is something regal in her young face, the set of her shoulder. I can imagine condemned princesses facing down their executioners with the same blend of fatality and poise. Maybe I don't entirely like Marley, but I respect her now.

And I think she knows that because a smile flickers at the edges of her mouth like a corrupt holo-file. "Kicking your ass was a nice bonus, though. I have too much business here to accompany you, but I wish you luck. Not that I think you'll need it with Brittany heading the expedition."

Maybe she doesn't intend it so, but that feels like a barb, so I answer, "Yeah. At least you'll have Jake with you to get things done."

Her sharp inhalation sounds like a his. Yeah, I know. I'm lucky she doesn't punch me in the face again. I probably deserve another black eye, but I've never been good at the antiquated doctrine of turning the other cheek. Why give them a chance to hit you a second tim? I say knock them out the first time they swing, a combative philosophy that probably explains my current situation.

But she surprises me by laughing. "Much as I hate the bastard, he does have a certain personal force."

"He's a mountain."

"He has his own gravity," Marley quips, and I realize we're smiling at each other.

Life goes on whether we want it to or not. And laughter is constant.

"Good luck rebuilding things," I tell her. "Going to clean up, then go get a good seat in the rover. I want to see what it's like all the way in the back."

"I wish…" She seems hesitant, and I pause, letting her assemble what she wants to say. "That is, Grandmother had all these ideas, tactics you were supposed to use, approaches for the different worlds. She'd done extensive research on culture, traditions, both primitive and alien…"

"Thats why she wanted to meet with me," I guess aloud. "To go over this stuff before we set out."

Marley nods. "But most of it was inside her head. Not long ago, she started to get suspicious of standard datapads and sys-terminals. She said the Corp could probably mine what you stored somehow or what you were searching for."

Once I'd have dismissed that as the paranoid delusion of an old woman who'd missed a few too many antiaging treatments. Now I consider the prospect for a moment before allowing, " It's possible. Do you have any of her research, at least? The info she unearthed regarding our target ten would save me retracing her steps."

"I'll give you her PA. Anything she stored would be in there. She wouldn't use standard datapads or sys-terms any longer. Just a moment."

Maybe five minutes later, Marley returns with a smooth silver sphere. I've seen these before, although I've never held one. They're ridiculously expensive, closed to any other systems, and require three levels of encryption confirmation before they will relinquish their data.

"I hope you have her codes. Don't know anybody who can hack one of these."

She leans in and whispers.

"Thanks." Nodding, I commit that to memory and pocket the device.

With a wave, I head off to the san-shower in my lodgings, which ar substantially nicer that anywhere else I've stayed. There's a sterile quality to any Corp quarters, regardless of locale, like they don't want you to feel at home. It's practical, choosing furnishings that are easy to clean and maintain with the constant rotation of crewmen in and out. But the end result remains unchanged; people don't _want_ to stay.

My in-room wardrobe contained only basic patterns, but I still prefer having my own clothiers–items in fabric, color, and style that I've chosen myself. It's hard to be confident and in control when you're wearing what someone else selected. Makes you feel like a child, even if nobody ever picked out your clothes when you were a kid.

Casually, I rake my new things into a bag Quinn donated. Yeah, I know; I expected the thing to blow up, but so far it hasn't, and there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it, either. So I sling it over my shoulder and head for the rover. I'm not going to check on anyone else. When I woke up in Med Bay, after Kai died, I promised myself I wouldn't let anyone get that close again.

Guess I'm early because nobody's around yet. So I tap the door once, and the panel slides opens, allowing me to grab a seat in back. If anyone shoots at us on this run, always a possibility here, I don't want to be under the gun hatch again. It's fraying cold, and I wrap up in my double-breasted s-wool overcoat to wait.

My patience doesn't last long, though, and I remember the PA in my pocket. I fish it out and thumb it on. It hums as it powers up, and a tiny little keypad ejects from the front, inexplicably reminding me of teeth. I'm nervous as I enter the codes Marley ave me. For all I know these things detonate if keyed wrong, and my fingers feel big and clumsy. But no boom when I'm done, just the sound of security disengaging as the thing clicks open, revealing a touch pad and small data screen.

The instant I tough the pressure point, though, a smooth asexual voice, speaks. "Welcome, Mair Dalhgren. It has been seventeen days since your last entry."

Is this thing an AI or just part of the data entry software? Can it feel loneliness if neglected? I pause for a moment, then answer, "This isn't Mair. She died almost a week ago, and her granddaughter gave me this unit to assist in carrying out her final wishes."

"I am sorry," says the little machine in a tone that approximates sincerity. "Please provide proof of identity with thumbprint and voice sample. Speak your name clearly, and I will update my records to reflect transference in ownership."

"Santana Lopez."

There's a pause, then a ray of thin yellow light emits from the data screen, sweeps the upper arc of my face, and I realize I've been ret-scanned. My heart thumps, thinking that the data will be beamed to the Corp along with my last-known location, and all this will have been for nothing. I'll wind up in the asylum after all, beneath Newel's tender care. _Oh Mary–_

"Congratulations." The unit smoothly interrupts the near panic of my thoughts. "You are confirmed as new owner of PA-245. In the event you should misplace or forget your codes, depress the emergency access button on the bottom of the device, and I will offer you the choice of rental scan, voice confirmation, or thumbprint to reset your security access."

Right, it's a closed system.

"What if I want to change Mair's old codes?" Marley knows them after all, and I don't trust people instinctively. This gadget is mine now, and I want whatever data I impart to remain confidential.

"Do you?" it asks.

"Yeah. Let's get that done."

_Such an advanced interface._ This can't be a simple software package. It's capable of reasoned interaction. Most programs would've simply recited the instructions for doing so.

"I'm bringing up input parameters on-screen. Please key the new codes, then confirm with reentry."

Wow. Maybe I'm giving the thing too much credit, but it seems to understand why I wouldn't want to speak the code aloud, although voice recognition is clearly contained within its field of expertise. As I choose my three codes, then tap them in, twice, I wonder about its limits.

"Are you an AI?"

_Is that a rude question?_

"New codes confirmed," it advises me. And then, almost kindly: "I am Artificial Intelligence 245, personal assistance and data management, fully equipped with the Helpful Administrator personality chip. Do you require further aid?"

"Yeah. Show me what Mair dug up on Marakeq. Please." I feel dumb adding the last word, but I can't help myself. There's something…different about this little machine.

And as the others start to arrive, I settle back to read.


	6. Chapter 6

_**GRIMSPACE**_

A/N: Just in honor of tonight's episode, this chapter maybe short but it's gold, if you know what I mean.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or Any of the Sirantha Jax series by Ann Aguirre that this is based on.

Her next Jump, may just be her last.

_**CHAPTER 6**_

_**Here I am in the cockpit with Brittany again.**_

I've hardly seen her in the last week. I get the feeling she's been avoiding me, but I'm not sure why. The way I figure, I'm the one who should be embarrassed, but I refuse to let it bother me. I didn't start my life over just to turn it into something I'm not. As I've never cared what anyone though of me, I'm certainly not starting with Brittany.

She watches me settled into the nag chair beside her. We're cruising, already a good distance from Lachion. I took my time making my way up here; in fact I made her summon me, something I can tell pissed her off. I check the port, even though I know it's clean. Stalling, because I have a fist squeezing my intestines, sweat popping out on my upper lip, and a snail of discomfort crawling down my spine. It doesn't get easier; we just don't have people shooting to distract me.

Kai started every flight perfectly. She'd lean over, a lock of ash blonde hair flopping into her eyes, and she'd give me attender, sheepish smile I came to love. Saying, "For luck," she would brush her lips against mine. But I never felt like I needed luck with Kai. She _was _my luck. We were golden; nothing could touch us. I wish I could remember what the frag happened on Matins IV, whether I killed her–

"Steady," Brittany says, resting a hand on my forearm.

I recoil reflexively. The warmth of her touch lunges, but I don't want her to comfort me, if that's her intent. She has no right, and she shouldn't know the things she does. I didn't confide in her.

"I'm fine," I bite out.

"She's _gone,_" she growls. "Not coming back, Santana. And I'm all you've got."

Her words make me gulp twice in sharp succession, suddenly light-headed. Much as I don't like Brittany, I respect her–or I _did.___For a long moment, I gaze at him, jaw clenched. _You think I don't know that? You think I'm _ever_ able to forget that?_ Heat suffuses my cheeks, and I feel myself trembling on the verge of something extreme, like I might cry. Or kill her.

I know which I prefer.

"Tell the crew to strap in," I say, my eyes on hers. "You speak to me like that again, I jump us all the way past the Polaris system. And if you don't think I'll flatline everyone on board, take another look at the wreckage of the _Sargasso_ from Matins IV."

"You talk tough, but–"

"But what?" I'm out of the nag chair and in her face. "Take a closer 'look,' asshole. Am. I. Bluffing?"

She doesn't want to. But I know the moment she does because her face goes queer and ashen. "You're saying you did that on purpose…?"

I shake my head savagely and drop back into my seat. "But this time, I've got nothing left to lose _except _my life. You keep pushing me, and I'm not going to give a shit about that, either. I don't care if you think it's pathetic that I"–my voice breaks, but I'm not going to let these tears fall in front of Brittany –"miss her. Keep your opinions to yourself, understood?"

I don't add: _You're not even worthy to say her name._ But it's there between us. She knows. To my surprise, she's the first to break eye contact.

"Just do your job," she mutters. "Sometime today would be good."

Without another word, I take a look at the star charts. Marakeq would take months to reach if we didn't have jumper on board, so it's not as far as it could be. The information I salvaged from Mair's research advises me that it's primarily a swamp world wot isolated packets of civilization, and the dominant life-form appears to be amphibian intelligence. We're further handicapped by the fact that the planet is both class P and nonhuman. Nothing like setting the bar high, right?

As I plug in, I hear Brittany telling the crew to prepare for jump. I'm blind again, waiting for her. Hating her. Then I'm crowded full of her as the phase drive starts powering up. Before her walls come up, separating us as efficiently as a room partition, something I never had with Kai, I glimpse something.

Something I'm not supposed to see. And it changes everything.

But I don't have time to reflect; the ship trembles beneath me, and I need to focus on getting us to the beacon intact. So I push the new awareness to the back of my mind and ready myself for grimspace. Oh, it feels good, a rush I almost forget each time I leave it behind. But Mary, the colors–I'm aware of the cadence, the cosmic tides, and the sequence of vibration that tell me inarguably: _That way._ And Brittany responds to my directives as an extension of me. Her hands are mine, sure and confident, guiding us through the primordial soup. Even as I hate her, I wish I could show her what it's like–

_You already are._

I'm not sure what that means, and I want to challenge the barriers she's put up to find out, but I can't divert myself from navigation. If I let my concentration slip, there's no telling where we'll end up. So I keep monitoring the wildfire outside the ship; everything seems so small, our hull looks like it should ignite plowing through the ether, but the colors don't touch us.

Now and then I see shimmers, reflections of others, maybe traveling parallel, maybe time trails. Grimspace ghosts. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever see shadows of myself, the echo left by my own passage on another vessel. That's a paradox the Corp didn't encourage us to contemplate, and right now, I understand why.

_We're here. _

I sense her assent, and the ship shudders, making the jump back to straight space. I don't need to see the astrogation charts to know we hit the mark, but before I can savor the pleasure of a solid run, the phase drive whines in powering run. I've heard that sound before, and its feedback screams inside my skull. Hope to Mary we don't need to leave in a hurry. The frog-folk aren't likely to give us any trouble in orbit, but if gray men or others track us down, it could get real messy without a phase drive.

Sighing, I tug the plug out of my wrist, and there's a moment of vertigo as I accustom myself to seeing with my eyes again. Everything flickers before coming into focus, ad sometimes I wonder whether I'm real at all, maybe I'm a program someone's coding for an interactive holo. The absurdity of the thought makes me smile–who the hell would want to pretend to be me?

Brittany taps the comm panel. "Quinn, I need you to–"

"Already on it," comes her waspish reply. "What am I, stupid? That's a rhetorical questions by the way. I'll let you know when I figure out what's wrong."

Unlike last time, I don't head out of the cockpit right away. Instead, I shift in my seat, watching her fiddle with the controls. I know she doesn't need to be so proactive, adjusting this and that once she's input our cruising course. All she needs to do for the next several hours is monitor our progress. I smile as I realize that means she's nervous.

"I know what you did," I tell her. "And why."

"No idea what you're on about, why don't you be a good girl and get me a drink?"

Oh, she's trying to distract me now by pissing me off _again, _but it won't work. "You can't bullshit me Brittany. I _saw._"

She turns her head to face me then, and I see a surprisingly vulnerable slant to her mouth. "You were upset," he mutters. "I just didn't want you kill us."

"So you made yourself a target. Better that I;m mad at you, hating you, than hurting, is that it?"

"Exactly," she answers, too quietly.

Perversely I feel like that's just about the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me, and yeah, I _know_ how that sounds. But I'm…not right. I wasn't, before Kai, and now, even less so. But regardless, it touches me that she chose to piss me off.

Exhaling, I say, "Don't do that again, Brittany. Please. I appreciate the concern, I do, but…I'll never get over it if I don't deal with it. And if I'm going to hate you, I want it to be real, not over mind games. I know you're good at them, better than me, but I really don't want to play."

She narrows her blue eyes on me. "I'll do whatever's necessary to protect this ship and my crew. I'm not making you any promises, Santana. I'm still not convinced you aren't a liability, not convinced we shouldn't have waited for someone more stable, even if that meant it took substantially longer."

That hurts, and it's meant to, but I don't flinch. Because even though she's doing her damnedest to play the hard-ass, make me think she doesn't give a shit about me, I know that's wrong. I saw. I _felt_. Just enough to make me wonder what else was there, before she slammed the door so hard it convinced me she has something to hide.

And I'm going to find out what.

_**As usual, we're in the middle of an argument.**_

However, I am just an observer in this particular squabble, sitting in the hub with my ankle propped on my knee. Quinn beetles her brows, and she's up in Brittany's face, doing everything but shaking a fist. I don't think she'd bother, though. If she intended to hit her, she wouldn't give warning; she'd let her knuckles do the talking. In the time we've traveled together, I've learned some respect for the woman.

"I'm telling you, we need to take the ship down," Quinn says heatedly. "If you four launch in the pod, then I'm fragged if they track us down before you get back. And aha if I need to do some work outside the ship? You going to leave me up here doing the walk without backup? Plus, I can't shut down certain systems while in synchronous orbit. They'll find it easier to locate us."

"She has a point." Everyone glances at Doc, who shrugs. "I understand you're worried about the ship being damaged on the planet, but if something happens up here, we're no better off, and we'll have lost Quinn."

"And nobody wants that." I don't mean to sound so acerbic, but Quinn just grins. To her, that probably felt like an endearment, and I can't help grinning back.

Quinn backs off, now that she has popular support. "Take us down then. Find a landing spot, ideally a clearing with some cover."

"Anything else, your majesty?" Brittany sketches a bow that would do credit to someone meeting real royalty.

"Frag you," she returns without heat. "My family was deposed fifteen years ago."

My brows arch as Brittany returns to the cockpit, but Quinn's already turning away to get back to work on the phase drive. That leaves me glancing at Doc for clarification, and he shakes his head before heading to medical. Finally, I turn to Kurt, who sighs.

"I believe Quinn comes from the Imperial family on Tarnus, or rather, what used to be the Imperial family. There was a populist movement on her world, perhaps twenty turns ago, and–"

"It ended in a bloody coup?" I guess.

Not that I don't want to hear the two-hour lecture that Kurt would have volunteered on Tarnian history, but well, I don't know shit about the universe, and I don't _want_ to know. The only thing I'm good at is grimspace, and it'll eventually kill me.

"That is an oversimplification," Kurt observes with a sliver of disapproval, "but essentially correct. I believe Quinn had been exiled in disfavor for…consorting with her handmaidens and taking an unseemly interest in alien technology, so she was not in the capital at the time."

I can't resist the urge to tease him.

"Consorting, huh?"

"Trust you to fixate on the prudent and miss the trauma she survived."

"Trauma?" Even as I repeat the word, I know I've been a moron.

"She's the only survivor from the royal family, and they only permitter her off planet for two reasons: her predilection for her own sex and her promise she'll never return."

"Her promise?" That doesn't seem like much of a warranty, even relying on some antiquated code of honor, not that I think Quinn would abide by such a thing. I'm parroting shit like I'm brainless, but I guess I just never imagine there was anything more to her than met the eye.

"If she sets foot on the surface of Tarnus, the chip in her head will discharge," he tell me dispassionately. "Any attempt to remove it will also result in detonation. They made sure she will keep her word."

And though I've heard some horrific things in my day, I can't help but shudder. Instinctively I know that the implant contains some ritualistic element, probably designed to shame her. I can't quite reconcile this with the tough ship's mechanic, but I know he's telling me the truth, or…most of it.

"What aren't you saying?"

Kurt shakes his head with a faint half smile. "There's a lesson in that, Santana. Nobody here is what he or she seems."

Before I can ask, the ship bucks, and Brittany's voice sounds over the comm: "Everyone strap in, it's going to get a little rough."

For once I do exactly what she says without finding her to argue about it. A few minutes later I'm glad I did because the ship's shaking, and I can feel us wallowing back and forth as we enter the atmosphere. Kurt murmurs that we're hitting thermal pockets, and I can't tell from his expression how bad that is. Brittany is probably struggling to keep the nose up, increase drag, trying not liquefy our hull.

"She doesn't use autopilot much, does she?"

Kurt glances up from the console and seems to decide it's time he strapped in as well. "I don't know," he answers. "We haven't flown with her any more than you have."

"Right."

I feel like a shit for forgetting the poor bastard who died on Perlas station. Before we can say anything more, we pitch sharply, and only the harness keeps me from being flung against the far wall. As it is, I'm going to have an impressive web of bruises all over my throat and shoulders. I feel my stomach surge into my throat because this reminds me of–

_No. Oh no._ This is like dream therapy, all over again.

_My fault…why did they think it might be my fault?_ I gut us to Matins IV, didn't I? I didn't hurt Kai. I wouldn't have. _But what…?_ I can't remember; there's a red haze around everything. It hurts, and I feel like–

We hit hard, and I feel the ship careening. Screaming metal, something tears loose. When there's a hangar or a port, you can expect a certain amount of help–a computer beaming ideal trajectory, cooperative deployment of thrusters. Here, it's just Brittany and her best judgement. I'm holding a scream inside my head, my throat seems swollen shut. I see nothing but the dark, spreading across my fired of vision like a plaque.

_**She's screaming. I hear screaming. I'm pinned. Both**__ my arms feel like the've been torn off, but I can hear her screaming. I have to help her, Mary give me strength, help me move this. Hurts. I'll crawl. No. No. Too LAte–I can smell the–_

_**There's not burning meat, San. You're safe. Everyone's **__all right._

This is the first time I've heard her when we weren't jacked in. But suddenly my head's full of her, and I don't know where I am. But I can feel my arms, and I'm whole, just like she's promising. I become aware of someone crying–fought wracking sobs.

Oh Mary, it's me.

It's going to be a while before I can speak, and I don't even want to think of opening my eyes because the crew is probably watching me with the horrified fascination usually reserved for the interstellar freak show. But I sense the negative even before I process her response. _They're checking out the _Folly. _We took some damage coming in._

Considering my meltdown, that seems like quite the understatement. Now I can feel her hands on my back, stroking, soothing. I guess she was right; I'm nowhere near stable and probably a liability to the mission. Shit, I can't even handle a rough landing.

_You're one of the strongest people I've ever met._ That shocks me out of my self-pity. I wonder why she's saying that, and as if I'd asked the question, she goes on:_ I could hear you screaming all the way up in the cockpit. And the second I touched you…San, I saw it all._

Shit. I did that? Gave her the charnel house from Matins IV to bear along with everything else? Mother Mary, is there no limit to the pain I'll inflict?

She gives me a little shake, and I open my eyes. We're still in the hub, but she's got me on her lap by the console. There's nobody else around right now, as she said. I'm starting to realize that Brittany's word is gold. She might be a lot of things, but the woman doesn't lie as far as I can tell.

"Was I screaming?"

I don't remember. My throat isn't sore, although the rest of me is.

"No," Doc says from the doorway. "At least not so the rest of us could hear." I register Brittany's surprise, but Sam continues, regarding us with an inscrutable expression. "She came from the cockpit at a dead run, yanked you up out of your seat. What happened, Santana?"

"Psychotic break." I feel like I'm signing away my personal liberty by admitting as much, like maybe the Corp had a point in keeping me confined.

But the Doc just nods, looking thoughtful. "Let's get you to medical."

It's only then I realize I'm still sitting in Brittany's lap, and her arms fall away from me with the slow, swimming reluctance of a mudslider learning to move in zero G. And I say quietly in the confines of my own head: _Thank you._ Not expecting to be heard. To my surprise, as I fold to my feet to follow Sam, I receive a very soft response that maybe I am no meant to hear.

_I will always come for you, San._


	7. Chapter 7

_**GRIMSPACE**_

A/N: Welcome new followers! I'm glad so many people are reading this. Thank you! on a side note: if anyone wants to try to make a cover for this story that would be really cool ;) anyway on with the story...

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or Any of the Sirantha Jax series by Ann Aguirre that this is based on.

Her next Jump, may just be her last.

_**CHAPTER 7**_

_**Ten minutes pass in silence.**_

Doc's bedside manner is a little disturbing, but then he's a geneticist more than an actual physician. I need to remember that. Finally, he concludes his battery of tests and regards me with an expression I can only describe as bemused.

"You have some unusual activity in the temporal lobe, both within the amygdala and the auditory cortex. We could work to neutralize those abnormal patterns, but I don't know whether that would be treating the problem or the symptom."

"Pretty sure it'd be the symptom. I have some…bad memories."

"Yes, I expect you would," he returns mildly. To my surprise he doesn't display the same kind of morbid curiosity as the Unit Psych. "Seems a hard landing acts as a trigger. Do you know of any other events that might set off a similar reaction?"

I shake my head. "Thought I was anesthetized to it, after made me revisit it so often on Perlas."

"They did _what?_"

Frowning, I explain what my confinement was like, and by the time I'm finished, well, I don't think I've ever Doc look so outraged. He asks me a series of questions regarding the frequency and timing of my treatments. "Barbarians," he mutters. "Wish I'd known this earlier. It explains a few things."

"Like what?"

He pause."I can't be sure without further testing, and I'm certain I want to subject you to it,but…Santana, I think they may have used subliminal suggestion in your dream therapy to guarantee your eventual breakdown."

"In case the Psychs and solitary weren't enough?" The bitterness in own voice surprises me, and what's more astounding, I don't doubt it's possible. But there's a more pressing question on my mind now.

Doc regards me solemnly. "I think it's critical we figure out what happened on Matins IV. They think you know something–and perhaps you do."

"Why didn't they just kill me?" It's the first time I've asked that aloud.

"I don't know, my dear. But I suspect it's vital we discover that as well."

"So you don't think I'm crazy…or dangerous?"

"No more than anyone else," he answers kindly, "under the right circumstances."

I don't know why, but that placates my fear better than anything else he could have said. Humans are capable of horrific acts, but the aftermath of Matins IV left me feeling like I deserve a special spot among monsters. And I don't even know why. Examined intellectually, the feeling doesn't make sense. I _know_ remade the jump; we arrived intact and something…happened as Kai tried to put us down on planet. I just can't remember what. But how could that be my fault?

My gaze wands around the sterile medical exam room, white and gleaming synth. Sam's interments align with mathematical precision, revealing a great deal about his character. I hop down from the table and decline his off of a sedative.

"No thanks. It won't accomplish anything if I sack out in quarters. Once I start _asking_ to forget, well.." I smile wryly. "I might as well have stayed on Perlas."

"I can't imagine you ever take ever the easy road," he observes, putting aaa the scanner he used to check my amygdala, whatever that it. "That's what Brittany can't resist, you know. That grit."

"She acts like she can't hardly stand me–"

"There are reasons." Before I can frame the question, Doc shakes his head. "Oh no, I've said too much already. Get out of my med bay, you're fine."

"No, I'm not. But I think maybe…I will be."

Sam gives me a knowing half smile as I turn down the hall, heading back to the hub. I can hear Quinn swearing from somewhere else within the ship, and Kurt seems to be analyzing a status report at the comm terminal. Well, things can't be too bad if we've got systems online, right? He ignores me, a fact I find comforting. It'd be so much worse if he behaved solicitously.

I still feel somewhat shaken, but I've got a little distance from it. Time to compartmentalize, push it back and pretend the woman who broke down belongs to someone else, another Santana. So I square my shoulders and go in search of Brittany.

When I find her, she's in the cockpit, but what bothers me is…she's doing nothing. Just slumped in the pilot's chair, gazing at the panel whose numbers mean nothing to me. A cold chill crawls down my spine as I realize I've never seen that look in her eyes: a veritable wasteland, bleak and grim. In anyone else I'd call the expression despair, but I can't reconcile that to what I know of her.

"What's wrong?"

I'd intend to demand to know what out plan of action, status of repairs, how long we might be ground, and when we're heading out to meet the natives. But her eyes knock all that right off my agenda. Now I just need to know why she looks like this.

"Better question is what's right? It'd take less time to answer." She manages a shadow of her usual saturnine smile, but I'm not buying it.

"Seriously, don't bullshit me."

Sighing, she sits forward in the pilot chair, tapping a figure on the display panel with an index finger. "That's population. Something bad happened here, Santana. There's nothing left alive above five kilos."

For a minute I can't even process that. The amphibians we came to visit beneath Corp radar, the genetics we intended to tap…gone? Figuring out what happened, that will be work for anthropologists down the line.

"How is that even possible?" I can't begin to guess.

Brittany shakes her head. "I don't fragging know. The Mareq were tribal, barely even aware that there were other settlements within reasonable walking distance: different traditions, different dialects. Don't know how a plaque could spread, given they had almost no contact with each other. And they were a peaceful race, as far as our records indicate."

"You think someone did this on purpose." It's not a question, and I know damn all that's what put this look in her eyes.

"Nothing else makes sense," she says, too quietly.

I think about that for a moment, and I'm surprised to see my hand hovering a few millimeters from he shoulder. Is that what I want? To comfort Brittany? Perhaps I give myself too much credit, believing I might have the power.

It's been over a standard month since I touched anyone else of my own violation. The last time, I was with Kai, preparing for our jump to Matins IV. Hovering there, my fingers look thin and spidery, blue veins too prominent across the back, a map of bad choices. Maybe those arteries writhe with some poison that contaminates everything I touch. So I drop my hand, and for once she doesn't notice, still staring at the panel.

There's something I have to ask, and a few months back, the question would never have occurred to me. But now I'm born again in speculation and paranoia. My skin crawls wit it, and my mind fosters suspicion like a beloved child.

"Did Zelaco have access to Mair's research?:

Brittany's head jerks up. "Possibly."

"Let's assume he did," I say, carefully neutral. "Would it be within his character to provide some intelligence to the Corp for the right price?"

She sucks in a slow breath, both hands fisting on her knees. "Absolutely. He wouldn't have revealed our base of operations; be wouldn't have risked them striking at Lachion while he was on planet. But if he calculated our risk of failure greater than our chance at success, he certainly would've padded his take by selling you to the gunners and added another slice by offering what he knew of our agenda to the Corp."

I feel numb.

"So we're looking at ten dead worlds, potentially. If you can't cull competition, destroy their resources. Brittany, what if they took samples? What if they know about Doc's cross-germination idea?"

"Doubt Zelaco knew the science of it. Doc's been very tight with that." But she doesn't sound hopeful.

In fact, she looks almost totally defeated, nd I realize she's paying me a compliment, letting me see her like this. MAybe it quid pro quo. She's seen me at my worst, so she can offer it back. Whatever the reason, I won't snipe at her, not now.

"Are we still going to look around on planet?"

"Might as well," she answers. "Quinn's going to be a couple of days getting us flightworthy. We took some jul damage coming in, and the phase drive–"

"Broke down conveniently," I finish. "Zelaco , or more to the point, someone her hired had access to the _Folly_ while we were en route to the compound?" When she nods, I add, "At this point, I think we can assume there are gray men headed for our location."

Brittany offers a tight smile. "There's a bright spot, at least."

"Or it's possible we're sharing a paranoid delusion."

"Occam's razor," she murmurs, asking her head.

"Huh?"

"Just someone who lived a long time ago and died in obscurity. We need to move unless we want to become anecdotal footnotes ourselves."

Reality as I know it is no more because I'm in complete agreement with Brittany.

_**It's hard to imagine this planet holding the key to anything.**_

Through the view screen, I see the soil bubbling with algae as the rain pours down. Everything in green, but it's unwholesome, dripping and dank. The atmosphere is borderline breathable, but we need filters to scrub out chemicals that might burn our lungs. I make no protest when Sam plugs my nostrils; that's not the way I want to die.

Most of the time, I imagine myself passing while I'm jacked in, taking my last look at grim space. Sometimes, mainly when I'm drunk, I see myself as an old woman, keeling over while eating smooth sweet slices of kavi and ogling beautiful waiters. That death wouldn't be hard to arrange, particularly on Venice Minor. In fact, I could probably pay someone to see to it.

"You think about that too much," Brittany tells me, as we're checking out gear.

"Everyone needs a hobby."

With a look she informs me that I'm unspeakably macabre, but I just shrug. Ship sensors indicate there's a settlement about four kilometers away, so we're going for a hike. The _Folly_ doesn't have anything like a land vehicle, just the shuttle, which won't clear the jammed bay doors, courtesy of our crash landing. We could sit around waiting for Quinn to get that fixed, but neither Brittany nor I qualify as patient. Besides, we've already ascertained there's nothing big left out there.

What could possibly go wrong?

Kurt takes one look outside and declines to set foot on planet; he doesn't bother with an excuse while Doc states gravely that if there are no living Mareq, he will only get in the way. Quinn presents the best case for staying behind, as the ship needs repairs.

For a moment, I feel as if there;rye throwing us together on purpose, as we'll probably spend the night at the settlement. Even if there's nothing dangerous left mudside, we could still fall down a hole or get sucked into the swamp. Whatever Brittany says, I'm not walking back in the dark.

But I don't notice any significant glances, no conspiratorial grins, so I don't think it's matchmaking. Seems more like they just don't want to wander around this shit hole, and as I step off the loading ramp, I can't blame them. I sink two centimeters into the mud, and the sink of putrid vegetation almost overwhelms me, even through the filters.

"Our own slice of heaven, huh, Santana?"

As the rain plasters my hair to my head, I sigh and shoulder my pack. "Right."

Guess this might have been paradise for the amphibians. Part of me aches, like this is my fault, like I'm the butterfly whose wings create hurricanes. I try to pouch it back. But it's hard to escape the feeling that my life has become a curse, a thread that ought to have been snipped at Matins IV, and that I'm only going to keep causing pain until I have the good sense to die. But even if that's the case, I'm just not selfless enough to fix it.

She fiddles with a handheld nav device, getting a fix on our location as opposed to the settlement. I'm almost surprised not to be chided for my thought, but then she can't live inside my head, can she? I suppose I've gotten used to the idea that she might, that she's privy to everything about me.

Realizing she doesn't and she isn't, now…I feel lonely.

"Let's go. Sooner we get moving, sooner we get there. See if we can make sense of what happened here."

Nodding, I fall in behind Brittany, not because I acknowledge her authority in any fashion but because if by some chance we were wrong, and there's something big and ugly left in these wetlands, I really prefer it eats her first. Give me a chance to run.

"Nice," she says, sparing a glance over her shoulder. "Really nice."

Oh sure, _that_ she hears.

For the first time it occurs to me, as we're walking, maybe its not entirely Brittany. Maybe it's something I'm doing, something I didn't even know I _could _do. I think back over the times where she's tuned to my frequency, and it's often when I was thinking something I _knew_ would needle her. This last time, I heard her back, without effort, without equipment. What that means, exactly, I have no idea.

"It means our theta waves are compatible," she answers, surprising me. "It's almost always a one-way feed. I get impressions from other people, what kind and how deep depends on how disciplined their minds are and how much I want to know. Used to be uncontrollable, couldn't shut it off."

"How did you–"

"Mair. She wouldn't teach me the higher forms, but she saw what a mess I was and taught me how to quiet my mind. Shut out the noise through meditation."

_Well that explains a hell of a lot. _"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Her next words come out strained. "Before she took me in hand, I wasn't even human, Santana. You have no idea how many people I've ended. Broke minds to set an example, for the hell of it, or just because I needed a quiet kill. I spent years on Nicuan, feeding their endless wars. By the time I stole ship because they shorted my pay, there was nothing left. Mair rebuilt me, brick by brick."

A chill shivers through me, more than the icy rain coursing down my neck. I've seen echoes of that darkness in her eyes sometimes, a soulless echo she keeps in check. Am I safe out here with her?

"Who else have I taken from you?" I probably wouldn't have the nerve to ask if I could see he face. But looking at her strong back in the battered flight jacket, I can just manage it. "I know about Rachel. And Mair. I didn't realize she was your mentor…that only makes it worse. But there's someone else, isn't there?"

And it's part of what she's been trying to hide from me, each time we jack in. Part of the reason she wants to hate me. I know her. _Svet_. Quinn said it weeks ago. But who was she to her?

I hold my breath as we walk, ducking beneath low-hanging vines and ferny fronds that clutch at my clothes as we pass by. The sounds seem louder around us, insects buzzing and chirping, a small symphony fusing with the slurp of ooze around our shoes.

"I'm not having this conversation with you, Santana. Not now."

"Why not?" Second time she's given me that answer, almost verbatim.

At that, she turns to face me. "Because we're in the middle of nowhere," she tell me deliberately. "There's nobody to see, nothing to stop me but my conscience. And I've only recently decided you on't deserve killing."

My breath rushes out of me in a sound that can't rightly be called a sigh. It's more of a whimper, and I'm embarrassed because I sound like a wounded animal. I don't know what I thought…that her animosity had become at least partially feigned? That I'd proven myself somehow. I guess I though because she pirated me away from the brain butchers on Perlas that I could, to some degree, count on her for protection.

But as it turns out, Brittany is the chief advocate of wanting me dead.

And what better way to accomplish that than to lead me, trusting as a sacrificial goat, out into the wilderness? No wonder nobody volunteered to come with us. Was there _ever _anything on this planet? and why wouldn't she have detected the anomaly in life signs from orbit? I remember Marley giving me the PA; she knew the codes. Maybe she planted all the data about the Marakeq. Maybe they realize I don't know anything, nothing but grim space, and I've been played.

Maybe Brittany doesn't give a shit about the grand scheme. I give her points for the thespian performance in the cockpit. I bought into it with all my credits. Believed she was suffering over the fate of these poor bog-runners. I'm so stupid. I should have known tree was a reason for her sudden shift, why she came running to help me.

Her assurance, _I'll always come for you, San, _takes on sinister tones.

There probably isn't a grand scheme any longer, and all their hope of an academy died with Mair. MAybe this is their way of righting the wrong o Matins IV. I thought it myself; I shouldn't have survived where so many other, worthier people died.

Wonder how far we are from the ship and whether they'd act against me if I came back alone. Do they know? I can't believe Doc and Kurt do. Sam has been the essence of kindness from the beginning and Kurt, oh shit, Kurt will _die _without me. Those two can't possibly be involved.

Does she plan to return without me? Report a tragic accident and move out? The Corp would probably stop hunting them with confirmation of my death. _Neat and tidy, isn't it, Brittany? And then you can wait for someone stable, just like you said._

Clean slate.

My face feels like it's blazing with heat, and I see clearly for the first time, every detail down to the rain trickling down her pale face. I back up a pace, then two, fumbling in my pack for anything like a weapon. Come up empty-handed. I'm not scared so much as angry, mostly at myself for being so fragging gullible, and if she takes a single step toward me, I'm going to kill her with my bare hands or die trying.

I know which one I prefer.

_**"You can't be serious."**_

But she doesn't make a move, so I think she knows perfectly well that the time for bullshit is done. She fooled me once, shame on her, but I'm not falling for it again. Instead, I'm gauging the distance, trying to calculate an approach where I can prevail against her sheer physical strength.

I have to be honest with myself, though. The odds don't look good. I probably have a better shot running away from her, and I possess too much self-preservation to cavil. Survival is survival, and she's just said she wants me dead. So I feint left and dive right, but before I can tumble past her and hit the ground running, she catches me around the waist, easily, as if I were a recalcitrant child trying to avoid chores.

"San." She pitches her voice soft, soothing. "You're losing it again. Maybe not a full break, but you're not rational. If I intended to hurt you, why announce it?"

I don't respond except to struggle with fists and feet, my heart punning in my chest fit to explode. It's something else now, and I'm trapped. She's a wall as I pummel her, managing to do nothing but bounce off her like she's the ultimate immovable object. And she doesn't react but to leave her arm around my waist, keeping me from falling, even when I collapse.

Because she's right–I'm fragging insane. I hate feeling like this. For the first time since I left Perals, the tears come, and I can't stop them, sobbing as the rains wash over us, heavier now. As if from beneath a blanket, I hear the rumble of thunder in the distance.

Afterward, the only reason I can look her in the eyes is because she doesn't comfort me. She doesn't murmur soft words or stroke my back; she just keeps me upright, out of the mud, and the moment it seems I can stand on my own, she lets me go.

"I'm so sorry," I say, low. "Don't know if it was the crash or something the Corp did to me afterward, but–"

"Shut up and let's go," she says brusquely.

For some reason, that makes me smile, but she doesn't wait around for my reaction. I'm left staring at her back as she heads down what passes for a trail, a clearish patch between the trunks of bloated trees. Oddly, I feel lighter. I have no idea what my Unit Psychs did to me, but I think my head's a minefield strewn with triggers, and maybe if I survive each explosion, what emerges from the wreckage will be me, really, truly me.

At that she spins, spearing me a look. There's such heat in her eyes, never seen this expression, not from anyone. It's not desire, but something deeper, darker. Instinctively I fall back a step.

"Not 'if,'" she growls. "I'm tired of catching glimpses where you're thinking about dying. Yeah, before we met, I wanted you dead, not because I felt you were to blame for Matins IV. Because you walked away. But get it through your head, Santana. I will _never _let anything happen to you, not now. You're one of mine, whether I like it or not."

My legs won't hold me. Or maybe my feet are simply swept out from under me by the wash running between gnarled roots. I wind up on my knees in the mud, face upturned, not to her, but for the rain, almost praying to be made clean. The fabric of our coveralls is supposed to be waterproof, but nothing can withstand the saturation found on Marakeq in monsoon season. We're both soaked through, and I feel as though I'll never be warm again.

"Brittany, please," I whisper, beneath the sound of the water. I don't know whether she can even me. "You have to tell me."

I gaze at her, touching her only with my eyes. And I recognize when she accepts the inevitability of this exchange. For the first time I grasp that bending doesn't necessarily mean weakness. Defiance doesn't always equate to strength. And before she replies, I know she's not going to deny me a third time before sundown.

Raindrops spatter her hard face like tears, and when she reaches for me, I let her draw me up. We stand joined only by our twined fingers, as she answers in a broken voice, a not-Brittany voice, "All right. All right, San. You win."

"I don't want to win. I just need to understand."

"How much do you remember bout to flight before the crash?" Her hands tighten on mine, hurting me, but I know she's not even aware of it.

I swallow hard around a lump in my throat. "It was uneventful." This part is rote; I've repeated it so often: to the Psychs, to my CO, in the silence of my own head. "We were just coming off R&R, so I was well rested. Kai and I intended"–small inner flinch at speaking of her in past tense, yes, she's really gone– "to pick a mechanic and a medic from the pool and do a routine exploratory. But somebody got sick, a jumper who was supposed to make a passenger run. There were all kinds of diplomats and dignitaries waiting for the jump-flight off station to Matins IV. My CO asked if I'd mind filling in, more R&R to follow, since he knew passenger flights weren't my favorite."

"Asked or ordered?"

I shrug. "Same thing."

"So what went wrong?"

She squeezes so hard that I have to pull away, rubbing my fingers to bring back the circulation. Soon I may have bruises, purple fingerprints where she ground skin against bone. There used to be flesh, muscle, but I've withered like the crone dolls children make from the husks of sere, out-of-season fruit.

"I don't know." Hurts to say that for what seems like the millionth time. "Safety check went fine, the flight itself…nothing out of the ordinary when you consider we had seventy-five souls on board and only eight crew, most of whom weren't accustomed to serving on passenger flights."

"It was a big ship then?"

"An X-class professional transept vessel. Kai had only piloted one like that maybe two or three times in her life, apart from academy sims."

"But she was certified, competent to handle it?" When I nod without hesitation, since Kai was the best damn pilot I ever knew, she asks, "What about you?"

I give her a half smile. "Size doesn't matter much to a navigator. Interface is everything."

Not until afterward do I realize how suggestive that sounds. To her credit, Brittany stays focused, although I wonder where she's headed with the. Probably she could've accessed my Psych reports to find all this out.

"So you made the jump, then it was a straight cruise to Matins IV...?"

"Yeah. There was a conference, something to with…I can't remember, actually. But I'm sure it's public record."

"Tell me the rest, Santana." Maybe she doesn't realize how demanding she sounds.

"That's all. In my head it's like there's this big red hole. I remember our final approach, Kai kissing me for luck and me…" I suck in a sharp breath. Oh Mary, can I truly say this out loud? Yes, I can–quid pro quo. "Teasing her. As she started making adjustments to the controls, being extra careful because it was a strange ship, bigger than she was used to, I asked, 'Are you afraid of falling, baby?'" My voice breaks, and I feel tears welling up, salty heat that doesn't matter in the rain. "And she answered, 'No, I'm afraid of landing.' S-She laughed. I smiled. I don't remember anything after that, Brittany. On Mary's Sacred Shroud, I don't. Next thing I know I'm on the ground, pinned. People are…are..."

"Shh," she whispers without touching me, which is good, because I'd break. "I know all that. Stop now. Stop."

"Your turn."

I'm not an idiot. I already know someone important to her died in that crash. Question is, who? The body count from Matins IV stands at eighty-two, and that planet should've been my grave. I'll spend the rest of my life carrying scars from wounds that ought to have killed me.

Should be dead twice over. The facilities on planet weren't sufficient to handle burns like mine, so they jumped me to Perlas. I'm told I lay there for twelve hours, listening first to screams, then to silence, before the salvage crew arrived. The landing authority figured there was no hurry…nobody could've survived.

"I'll tell you, San." She offers a smile laced with wry humor. "On Mary's Sacred Shroud, I will. But right now we need to move."

I follow the trajectory of her gaze downward and see that we're sinking into the ultrasoft Mareq soil. Vines stir around us in a way that I can't help but find disturbing, like the planet's alive, tentacles of a beast about to feast.

_Shit._

Brittany pulls me out of the mud with a hard tug, then we sprint deeper into the trees. Hope to Mary she knows where she's going.

"Me, too," she mutters.

Huh, wonder why I'm not reassured?


	8. Chapter 8

_**GRIMSPACE**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or Any of the Sirantha Jax series by Ann Aguirre that this is based on.

Her next Jump, may just be her last.

_**CHAPTER 8**_

_**WE stumble on the settlement by chance. **_

My legs ache because we had to run in long, bounding strides to keep from sinking, slip-sliding along in the driving rain. I feel the sting of it on my skin long after the downpour finally abates. And my fingers feel cramped because she never let go of me; I understand why. Getting lost here would be a death sentence.

The community looks about like I expected.

But the mud mounds are the best biotecture I've ever seen; class P or not, this civilization clearly understood the value of a harmonious habitat. We walk through the deserted arcology and see no signs of struggle, no damage to external environs. Though I don't know what's on Brittany's mind, I'm wondering what the hell happened here.

If we go inside one of the structures, we'll need to do it on hands and knees. The openings are more suitable for children, and I recall from my reading that the Markeq seldom reach more than 92cm at full maturity. A chill rushes over me as I realize we may be the only sentient creatures left on planet. I've visited dead worlds before, logged the existence of ancient ruins, but that doesn't posses the same immediacy as knowing you've glimpsed the death of a thriving culture.

As we explore, the sky overhead darkens to slate, and the gauzy star that functions as this world's sun slips below the horizon. Apparently this is the closest thing to true night Marakeq possesses, a dreamtime twilight where the trees take on fantastic shapes.

"I though this run would tell us something," she says finally. "What type of weapon was used, where they went…" Sighing, Brittany taps the communicator to get in touch with the _Folly_.

"Everything all right?" Doc's voice sounds reassuring, even from four klicks out.

"Yes and no," she answers. "We got nothing but we're safe enough. Going to spend the night and head back to the sip in the morning. Brittany out."

"Let's find a place to pitch camp," I say, tilting my head toward on of the larger structures. "In there might be good."

"You think? If it was a disease that took them–"

"Where are the bodies?" I shake my head. "Plus a disease that's fatal to the Mareq probably wouldn't even translate to our systems. We're fundamentally different; they're not even warm-blooded."

As we're crawling inside the mound I indicated, something about what I just said resonates. I stop just inside the low arch, and Brittany butts me with her head. "Get moving, Santana. It's fragging cold, and it's starting to rain again."

But I'm waiting on my eyes to acclimate to the dim interior. Hoping I'm right. And yeah, there are small bulges all over the earthen floor.

I laugh softly, delightedly. "They're not gone. You said yourself, it's _cold_, Brittany. They're in the ground. Sleeping until it gets warm again.

"And their heat signatures have equalized to the earth around them. Shit, you're right. We _were_ sharing a paranoid delusion."

"Partly at least, I think I've ever been so happy to be wrong." I;m beaming at her over my shoulder.

She smiles back, a real one, not the parody that twists her mouth and never reaches her eyes. "Me, either."

Backing out, we make a quick visual inspection inside all the buildings and find most of them are occupied, their residents asleep for the winter. When we find an empty edifice, probably a meeting place, not a home, that's where we make our last stop, hands and knees muddy beyond belief from all the crawling. Inside the hut, it's surprisingly inviting, cozy, the sloping walls covered in soft moss.

"So what do we do? There's no guarantee we can wake them, and I'm not sure that's a good idea, even if we can."

"First thing we do is warm up," she answers, digging in her pack. "Or we 're going to die of exposure. Get your blanket, yor lips are blue, San."

There's no way she could tell that. too dim in here, everything is gray. But I do as I'm told, fish out my supposedly weatherproof bedroll and wrap up. Sometimes it's stupid to argue. But why am I not surprised to learn that dinner will be squeezed out of a packet? I sigh and suck it down.

Later, I feel substantially warmer, and I've nourished my body, if not satisfied it. Brittany sits across rom me, leaning against the wall. Her eyes are closed, but she's not asleep. She might as well hold up a sign that says: _I don't want to talk._

So I shut my eyes as well, and I'm nearly dozing when she murmurs, "I hate how well you understand me."

"You're not exactly inscrutable."

"The rest of the universe doesn't agree with you, Lopez."

At that I grin and open my eyes. "Right, sorry. You're the soul of feminine mystique. Better?"

A pale flicker tells me she's probably smiling. "Not what I meant, but I'll take it. Have you seen the ship's official manifest?"

_Talk about non sequiturs._

I shake my head. "Why would I?"

"It's registered as a privately owned vessel out of Gehenna, full designation–_Svetlana's Folly._"

Now it makes sense; she's just no better at seques than I am. "Who was that?"

"My half-sister." She sighs. "Long story, all that matters is…she was among your crew on the _Sargasso._"

I want to show sympathy, but that'll earn me a rebuff quicker than anything I could say. So I just ask, "She joined the Corp?"

I sense more than see her nod. "She was tired of living hand to mouth. Said I'd one day grasp the value of working for the establishment. I didn't want her to go, but she wasn't somebody who listened to advice. When I could finally afford my own ship, I named it to poke at her that I'd made good, right? Without selling my soul to the corporation. We were supposed to meet up after she made the Matins run. Said she had something important to tell me and wouldn't trust open comm channels."

I flinch. _Brittany, I'm so sorry._ But I don't say it aloud, and I don't even know what I'm sorry for, really. Being alive? I don't recall what happened; I truly don't. Clearly, the Corp intended it to become my fault; they shaped my treatments so I wouldn't be mentally competent to deny charges laid against me. Whatever else, that's one reason they didn't kill me. A living cat's-paw serves a number of purposes, PR and otherwise. They probably hoped to get me to the point that I would confess, sobbing and broken. Apologize in tears to the bereaved families; you can't buy press like that.

"I understand," I manage through an aching throat.

And I do. Much as I'd like to, I can't blame her for feeling I'm tainted by what happened on Matins IV. I can't blame her for seeing in me a living reminder of her sister's death. She probably wishes she was sitting here instead, and no, I can't blame her for that, either. I wish she was, too. Instead of family, now all she has is a ship bearing a name that probably hurts every time she hears it.

"No," she says quietly. "You don't. If I hate you for what happened to Svet, then I'm no better than the Corp, practicing prejudice because it's convenient. And I've spent my whole life fighting against what they represent. I _wanted _you to be the cocky, care-for-nothing nav-star we saw on the holo. That woman, I could've despised. But…you're not. Maybe you were, I don't know. But that's not the woman I see now."

Through the damp fabric of my coverall, bundled in my blanket, I feel naked. Raw. She sees more than I want, more than I can bear. It's like standing before her on Perals all over again while se stares at my scars. pitiless and unmoved.

"What now?" My voice sounds husky, and I don't even know what I'm asking.

Her shoulders surge in what I take to be a shrug. "We head back to the _Folly_ tomorrow. It'd be wrong to disrupt their life cycle for our agenda. There are nine there planets, so we hope for better luck."

See, this is where Brittany differed from the Corp. Both agree that Marakeq should be left alone. The Corp, however, take that stance because they believe the Mareq don't possess anything that would benefit them. Thanks to Sam's research, Brittany knows better; she just won't exploit them. I understand why the others look to her–and what I thought before, Doc serving as her conscience, that's wrong. Because that's woven so thoroughly throughout her being, it doesn't register as a separate impulse.

"I like it better when you sat around thinking about huge rocks falling on me," she mutters. "Don't romanticize me, Santana."

I sputter a laugh. "Are you kidding? Have you _seen_ yourself?"

"Says the woman shoo looks like that."

I can only imagine the mud-incrusted, matted-hair picture I present. Well, that comment silences me since she's right, but I smile as I dig the toe of my boot back and forth making patterns in the soft dart. Then I freeze as I uncover something shimmering-translucent. I don't think she can see it from across the way, so I lear onward, raking more top soil away to see.

"Britt," I whisper reverently. "Be careful in here. We're in the nursery."

At that, she knee-walks over to examine my find, and I'm surprised to see her face light with a smile. "You're right."

On my knees in a mud mound with thousands of little Mareq sleeping beneath us, I feel the most astonishing tranquility. We're surrounded by life, by perpetuity. They have languages, customs, and these bog-runners will never have to worry about grim space or the Corp. Who's to say they're not better off?

"Wishing you were Mareq?" she asks, then emits a throaty sound that mimics their speech better than I would've credited. She continues to croak, teasing me.

I don't mind. The air's clear between us, at least. Clean slate. But it's hard to say who looks more astounded when the egg I uncovered trembles and splits to birth a slimy, big-eyed Mareq that latches on to the back of Brittany's hand.

_Poetic justice._

Managing not to laugh, I ask, "So I've been meaning to inquire…how d'you feel about parenthood?"

_**Doc's amusement is contagious.**_

He's tapping away at a terminal, education the new mother on nurturing her young. I can't help but snicker at the picture Brittany presents. Because she couldn't transport the little guy back to the ship in the cold, she tucked it into her shirt, where it promptly attached to her chest.

Quinn has propped herself against the wall just outside of medical, so she can mock her conveniently. "Tell me you did this on purpose. This is how we're getting our DNA sample, yes? Because nobody's dumb enough to wind up like this accidentally."

"I'm _that_ dumb." Brittany glares at her.

She smirks. "I always secretly suspected."

"Leave her alone. You wren't there, were you?" So I'm siding with Brittany? That's got to be a first.

"Tell me you've figured out a fix," she begs Sam. "Come on, it's…licking me."

Doc seems fascinated by what he's reading. "Well…yes. That's how it survives the first standard month. Apparently the parent that awakened the offspring expels protein-rich mucus through it's pores, which the progeny ingest until it's old enough to digest more complex organisms like vegetable matter and insects."

Quinn's smirk become a grin. "This just gets better and better. You two smell utterly foul by the way. Just saying."

Brittany looks at the small lump beneath her shirt. "You're kidding, right?"

The little Mareq makes a weak sound, and I wince. "We have to find something it can eat, or we might as well have left it to die in the cold."

Brittany sighs, looking down. "Why the hell did you wake up early, huh?"

Kurt sits at the other terminal, skimming the minute data files. At that he glances up and says, "Apparently it's your fault. Well, you and Santana together. According to Jacob Isreal– he's a Fugitive xenobiologist who studied the Mareq covertly–for a birth, two conditions must be met. First, it is uncovered by the parent that will rear it, and second, that parent declaims what Isreal calls the 'Coming-Forth' song."

"This is your fault," Brittany says, glaring at me. "You dug it up."

"Yeah, but who sang the Coming-Forth song? That'll teach you to tease me."

"Pointless bickering!" Doc shakes his head, glancing between us. "I'll do a biomolecular analysis and synthesize something. Brittany, you'll want to moisturize your chest before applying the nutri-gel first time, and you'll need to leave it on constantly for the first month, unless you're bathing. Then someone else will take over, but we'll want to avoid switching hosts as much as possible. The little one chose _you_, after all."

"You're shitting me!" Brittany makes two fists, but who's she going to hit? I've never seen her look like this. "I have to keep this thing on me for a month? Can't you rig something up? A surrogate?"

"You _are _the surrogate," Kurt points out.

"As far as I know, no one's ever raised a Mareq outside it's own habitat," Doc answers, his tone remarkably gentle. "It's vital we stick as close as we can to what we know of their natural life cycle." With that, Sam gets busy, trying to generate something the baby can digest.

With its protuberant eyes, yellow translucent skin, suction toes, and scrawny useless limbs, it's actually so repulsive it's almost cute. Then again, it's not attached to _my _chest. The creature is no more than an oblong blob beneath Brittany's shirt, barely seeming to breathe. I don't know how the oxygen-rich environment is going to affect its development or what other chemicals it needs to thrive.

"We should analyze the atmosphere here and the contents of the soil. Maybe take some of that mud with us for when it's older?"

Quinn smirks at me now. "You're nesting. I mean you finally shagged, right? You two went out into the wild alone and came back with a baby. Should've figured your children would be ugly but daaaaamn…"

"Go _fix_ something," Brittany bites out.

To my surprise, she does, but not quietly. "I get this ship flightready in less than forty-eight hours, and i'm begrudged a little amusement? When the revolution comes, I will destroy you all."

"The revolution came," Kurt calls after her. "You lost."

Her response echoes back: "Kiss Lopez's ass."

And I laugh softly.

"Body temperature's a little on the high side since we're warm-blooded, but it's life signs are good. Just need a little more of this amino acid…" Doc mutters. "Hm, try this? Theoretically, it's a close enough match, and if the little fellow doesn't eat soon…"

"Moisturize," she protests, as Saul comes for her with a glove full of goo.

"Good point." Without so much as a "please" or "you look lovely tonight," Sam yanks my coverall open to the waist and slathers the stuff on my sternum. "Pass the baby, let's see how I did. Brittany, go moisturize yourself."

She head for quarters, muttering, "This has to be a bad dream."

"We need to know more." Kurt glances up from his research, uninterested in the spectacle. "We might be able to stumble through the first month, but we've no idea where to go from there, nothing about their skill development. The undisputed Mareq expert is Jacob Isreal, but he published his last article more than two turns ago."

Oh Mary, it's slimy, licking me with its slithery pink tongue. _Probably going to be a wonder at catching bugs, later._ The nutri-gel is sticky, but its heartbeat grows stronger, steadier, thumping against my chest. The toes feel really bizarre against my skin. But there's a certain pride in what I'm doing, even if it's beyond disgusting.

"Last-known location?" Doc asks, still monitoring me and baby-it.

Kurt shakes his head. "Doesn't say, but we don't have the range to search the full archives anyway, not to mention it would give away our position if we tried. I'm thinking we need to bounce a message to Marley and see if she can find out for us."

"Do that," Brittany says from the doorway. "Encrypt the relay if you can."

"Consider it done." Kurt waves and heads for his station.

"So what're we naming him?" I grin at Brittany, who's staring like she's been hit with a shockstick.

Her mouth opens, but all that comes out is, "Huh?"

Belatedly I notice her eyes aren't on mine, and I glance down. Shit, I'm standing around bare-breasted, nursing like some class-P village woman, my scars shiny with slime. Rest of me is covered in dried mud, and my hair looks like it belongs to a New Terran dirt-dauber priestess, so yeah, I've never looked better. But frag her, what do I care? I'm doing a good thing here.

Doc seems obvious, so I glare at Brittany. She's so clean, the bitch. "Hey, I took your turn while sou were making yourself silky-smooth. You could say thanks."

She clears her throat. "Thanks, Santana."

But I don't recognize that tone. Shrugging, I say, "I'm dying for a shower. Doc, you wanna grease Brittany up?"

"Yep," Brittany muttes. "Thats shooting _right _to the top of the list questions I never want to hear again."

The baby doesn't want to let go of me, and in the end, I have to gently peel its little toes away one by one. However, once its tastes the gel on Brittany's skin, it seems content to latch on. I think it's the food source; thing isn't old enough to form emotional attachments, if the Mareq even do that as we know it. We really need to find this "expert" Kurt was talking about.

What was his name? _Jacob Isreal._

I don't stay to listen to Brittany's whimpering, miserable moans, and I'm proud of myself because I don't collapse laughing until I'm safely in quarters. But as I straighten I get a look at myself in the mirror above my bed. Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace, it's worse than I thought. I squeeze my eyes shut and fumble to the san-shower because I don't want to see that filthy hag again.

Maybe an hour later, and yes, I took that long, my door chime sounds. Quickly, I scramble into the loose ii-pants and cami that serves as my pajamas and answer it. I'm surprised to see Brittany standing there. The baby's well fed, it seems, and making odd little whirring sounds that I interpret as contentment. Think this is the first time she's sought me out since Perlas, where she had no choice.

Her gaze drops to the sliver of skin where my trousers and shirt don't quite meet, and I become aware of my hip bone riding above the fabric. With a tug, I fix that and step back so she can come in, is she wants.

But she shakes her head. "I just wanted to thank you."

"What for?"

"Making me do the right thing." She glances down with some expression I can't begin to interpret.

But I know she didn't mean it, those first frantic moments gazing at the thing stuck to her hand. Didn't mean it when she muttered we should leave it. Through our interference, the little guy was born out of season, and none of the mature Mareq will stir until warms up. Far too late–and Brittany would never hurt something that couldn't fend for itself, not even with neglect.

"You've never needed me for that," I say softly. "And you never will."

She's smiling as I close the door in her face.

_**We're two standard days out of Marakeq, cruising **_straight space, when Marley's reply reaches us.

Stupid to jump until we know where we're going, since by some miracle the gray men haven't descended on us yet. Maybe Zelaco didn't make contact with the Corp after all. Maybe that was just Brittany and me relaxing with a round of worst-case scenario. That'd be a nice fragging change.

Evidently her encryption ware isn't compatible with ours because the message plays in skips and hisses; "…wish I knew what the…but anyway…Jake… do you…Isreal's last- known location…Matt-Rutherford's Kingdom."

I think I speak for everyone when I say, "Shit."

Kurt plays it twice more, coaxing a few more words from it, but nothing that adds to the overall coherence. Everyone's oddly subdues, and for once, I know why. Doc mumbles and heads off to medical, probably to record his will or something.

"So how bad _is_ this guy, really?" I ask Quinn, who sighs.

"Put it this way," she answers. "He calls that shit hole on the Outskirts his kingdom. Seriously. Do you need to hear more?"

"Long haul in straight space," Brittany says, sounding thoughtful.

I sigh. "No shit. Why don't we just let Doc do his best and get on with our mission? We need more samples, don't we? This training academy isn't going to build itself."

For once Quinn agrees with me. "Sounds good. Let's give Matt a wide berth and say a Hail Mary for baby-it."

Wearing her "captain" expression, Brittany says, "Look, it's my fault this thin hatched early. I can't in good conscience proceed without doing everything possible to ensure it thrives. Let's ask Doc what he thinks."

Kurt studies brittany with an impassive mien. If this comes to a vote, I suspect he'll be the tiebreaker. Then she beeps Doc in medical to ask, "If we choose not to seek out the Mareq expert, what are the chances we can successfully raise the hatchling to an age where you can obtain viable amounts of genetic material for your research?"

Even through the screen, Doc seems startled. "I thought this was decided. Very well, let me run the numbers." He taps some figures into his handheld and sighs. "Highly probable we'll kill it within the first month without expert guidance. If it lives that long, I can take some decent sample, but for the sake of my research, I prefer we take the route that benefits the specimen."

"I say we go, too," Brittany puts in. "You and Quinn vote against?"

I glance at her. Doc's detachment has made me twitchy. How ironic that Doc is arguing for the benefit of the creature, though not for purely humanitarian reasons. On the whole, this side junket seems like a waste of time.

With an apologetic look at Brittany's chest, I mutter, "Yeah. Let's keep working towards the original goal."

Quinn nods. So yep, it's up to Kurt now. Everyone turns toward him to see which way he'll swing.

"We should go," he says at last. "Nobody will die i we push back our schedule, but the little one might if we fail to learn how to care for him properly. And I won't be party to devaluing his existence because he's nonhuman."

_Ouch._ That cuts deep on so many levels. As a humanoid alien, Kurt would know all about being made to feel lesser.

Though nobody else would notice, I see the way Brittany relaxes. Her shoulders lose a tension I hadn't registered consciously until it dissipates. This meant a lot to her, and I need to find out why.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah." She makes some effort to shake it off, apparently registering my concern.

In two days, she seems to have gotten used to having baby-Z attached to her chest. I'm not sure what the Z stands for, but the name stuck. I've caught Brittany whispering a few times, trying to mimic the only recorded example of Mareq speech among Isreal's work. And, of course, I've played surrogate twice more while Brittany was in the san-shower. Nobody else will touch the thing, not even Doc. He said he'd done enough, between the food source and the patch on it's skin that provides other necessary chemicals not naturally present in our environment.

"If we're going," I say, "let's combine what we know about the place." I wrack my brain for a moment. "It was built as a supply station before certain beacons were discovered. Since then, trade routes have changed."

I don't want them thinking I'm ignorant; I know why Matt-Rutherford rules that corner of space. Nobody else wants it. But still, the man isn't someone you cross lightly. He styles himself a raider, though nobody knows how many ships comprise his "armada," because he tends to kill people who come calling, bad for us and worse for Jacob Isreal.

"Isreal might be all right." Brittany answers me without seeming to realize I haven't spoken. For the first time I wonder if the others know. Obviously Mair did, but what about the crew? "He's a Fugitive, after all, and if he was in deep shit after pirate-publishing his work on a Corp-restricted world, where better to hide out?"

Quinn nods. "And Matt-Rutherford hates few things more than authority."

I'm familiar with Fugitives as well, scientists who flout Corp regulations regarding restricted worlds. Every now and then, they orchestrate an impassioned protest, shouting that the Corp has no right to limit knowledge. Though I used to see them as a fringe faction, rabble-rousers and dissidents, I don't disagree with their ideas anymore.

And technically, we're worse than Fugitives, who are so careful when they study on class-P worlds. Under no circumstances would one of their scientists reveal himself; in fact, a few have died of some simple illness rather than compromise an alien culture. As for us, we're more like Freak Show Talent Scouts, although I don't know of any that have kidnapped a Mareq hatchling. Maybe we're just in a class by ourselves.

"Come on," Brittany says then. "Time to jump, Santana."

"It's still going to be thirteen days in straight space, even from the nearest beacon," I tell her back, and she just waves in acknowledgement over her shoulder.

As we settle in the cockpit, she gets on the comm. "Head to the hub and strap in, people. We're going to pay an old friend a visit."

"Acknowledged," Kurt returns.

I pause in checking the port to slide her a glance. Looks like the nag chair escaped damage in the crash, but Quinn probably already inspected it. She really is good at her job.

"You know him?"

"Long time ago," she mutters.

"That's all you're going to tell me?" I gaze at her, incredulous.

She nods. "RIght now. We have work to do."

Sighing, I realize I can't argue that. The sooner we leave the system, the better. We've probably been here too long already.

The comm crackles, and Quinn announces, "We're ready."

Brittany taps a few panels, and I fell the comforting throb of the phase drive powering up. The whine that accompanied its use last time translates to low purr instead, so I know we're good. "Let me see the locus of a long haul between our current position and Matt-Rutherford's Kingdom," I tell the nag computer.

"No match," it answers, sounding almost smug.

_Fragging AIs._

Brittany thinks a moment, then suggests, "Try DuPont Station."

Shit, nobody's used that name in…well, forever, but…of course, that's where we find the file. According to official record, DuPont Station is derelict, but anyone taking these maps verbatim would receive a rude awakening. I study the coordinates and realize I've made this run before, maybe five turns back, although my final destination differed.

"Hate the Outskirts, but at least there's minimal Corp presence." If there's a place where lawlessness is the rule, rather than the exception, then were headed straight for it.

Brittany grins at me. "Truer words were never spoken, San."

Not until after I plug in do I realize I don't feel the same nausea and dread as the first two jumps. Whatever else she is, she's _my _pilot now. And part of me feels like I've made the adjustment too fast, as if I'm betraying Kai in some fashion.

"She's gone," Brittany reminds me gently. "And I'm all you've got."

Hearing those words doesn't hurt as much this time. I know I'm never going to kiss Kai for luck again, never going to wake in her arms, never going to see her smile, never hear her laughter ring out. She's gone, and I'm alive, whether I want to be or not. Only the ache remains.

When Brittany jacks in beside me, she doesn't bring up the mental partition. She's still compartmentalized, just like me, but she's not hiding anymore. Among other things, she lets me see that she needs me to see this think through. I wonder if she'd let me rummage through her mind, as she seems to do with me or whether she'd slap my metaphysical hands.

Then I register her unmistakable amusement as the seat vibrates beneath me. _Make yourself at home, San._

I'm starting to do just that as the trembling increases, and I decide that the way we're rocking isn't right. That slinging side-to-side motion almost feels like we've been hit–and then I hear Quinn shouting via comm; "Make the Mary-sucking leap already! Since when does the Corp hire bounty hunters…?"

With a flick of her palm, Brittany shuts Quinn up, and the world explodes in color, scintillating, dazzling patterns that form and fold in on themselves. My whole body aches because this is homecoming, and I'll never belong anywhere more than I do here. Grimspace steals my soul a sliver at a time, and I love it too much to mind. Each time I leave, I forget a little of the majesty, or I wouldn't survive the loss.

I can't worry about the ship that fired on us as we made the leap, can't let myself wonder whether they had a jumper on board and if they're giving chase. It takes every ounce of concentration to make the mental translation from straight space, then feel my mind's eye spinning like an old world compass.

But this is different, different that flying with Kai, different than the first two jumps with Brittany. Because I can fee what it's like inside her skin, each breath she takes and how her heartbeats. I feel the steady pulse of baby-Z against her chest, the faint stickiness of the nutri-gel that Brittany no longer notices. And I'm aware of her hands on the controls as I never have been. I could fly the ship if I had to, because we're not her and me, we're…we, then I sense her astonishment, sharing my mind's eye as we gaze outward to grimspace.

Maybe I gave her some sense of it before, but this time, she sees _completely, _and I know she does; the glory, the colors, and the almost-manifest monsters that writhe along the hull. The _Folly_ plows through liquid fire; the world without is a conflagration of possibility, ideas and dreams barely conceived and waiting to be given form.

But Brittany and yes, it's the Brittany-me spinning my mind's eye away from the beacon. _She's _doing it, and I didn't even know this was possible. She's trying to show me–

_Shit_. There's a ship coming up fast behind us. I don't know whether they stayed with us through the jump or whether we've stumbled into a time trail. Regardless, I don't want it following us into straight space, because it doesn't seem friendly, and I sense accord from Brittany. We've got to get rid of them and fast, before I exhaust my mental energy. We both know some ships make the jump, and for some reason, never come out again, but the Brittany part of me loves a challenge.

_Come on, assholes, let's play._


	9. Chapter 9

_**GRIMSPACE**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or Any of the Sirantha Jax series by Ann Aguirre that this is based on.

Her next Jump, may just be her last.

_**CHAPTER 9**_

_**I know what we're going to do before she does.**_

The spin feels ugly, graceless, and my stomach hurtles into my trout. bounces back as we whip the way we came. Sudden;y we're coming at them hard-forward, and thy have to choose, collision or roll. What happens when two ships crash here?

I'm pretty sure I know why we've never heard of it happening; no one lives to tell the tale. I taste Brittany's satisfaction, the pumping adrenaline. Mary, she lives for this, and with her–our?– pleasure punning through me, I'm not even afraid as the other ship slings sideways out of our path. This is glorious, exhilarating, and I can sense her agreement.

Then we make the loop again, going nowhere, over the top, back the way we came, again and again, until I feel dizzy. She's actually doing it, though I've never seen anyone create grimspace ghosts on purpose. Now there are so many copies of _Svetlana's Folly_ that even I have a hard time telling which vessel's ours.

This is the longest I've ever been jacked into grim space, and I feel my body sundering, although I feel strangely detached from its meat. The vista in my mind's eye expands until I can see farther than I ever have. What would be the horizon beckons, if this place possessed such a thing. It's not a door but something else and–

_No. San, no. Find the beacon._

But it's not that easy. For the first time during a jump I'm aware of fierce physical pain, and the outward tug grows stronger. I'm not sure I can resist it, and what's more, I don't want to; I want to see. I want to know. I've spent my whole life preparing for this final journey, and maybe through the door-that-isn't-a-door lie the people I've lost. Maybe Kai's waiting for me with a kiss and a smile.

_Don't you dare leave me, San. Don't you dare._

And then I feel stronger somehow. Brittany wraps herself around me in ways I didn't know where possible. Everything I am is filled wit her. Every cold and shadowed place, she kindles with light, warmth, clutching me tighter, until she's all I know, and I can't hear the siren song anymore.

_Stay with me. Stay._

The pain returns as I try to focus, seeking the signal that's always helped me orient in the past, but it feels thready and weak, diluted by my weariness and whatever's gone wrong inside my flesh.

_I think, here._

Brittany responds with sure hands, knowing we have to get me out of here, or I'm going to be lost. As the ship shudders, making the leap back, I'm not sure where there frag we are, certainly a first. And my ale satisfaction is that the bounty hunters who hounded us her don't seem to know which _Folly_ to follow as our ghosts split in different directions like the scattering of a school of fish.

My hands shake as I unplug, and when I try to open my eyes, it feels like the light is made of knives, stabbing straight in my skull. I touch my face. Find it wet. And my fingers smell of copper. Never known a run this bad.

"San…" Her voice sounds rough, raw. "You're close, aren't you?"

I don't ask what she means. But for a moment, I can't speak, can't so anything but try to stop the steady stream of blood trickling out my nose. Then I hear her moving beside me, and soon there's a cloth in my hands. I wish I could see her face, but I can't bear the brightness in my eyes. At this moment I'm beyond empty, remembering the delicious pull and the way she wrapped around me. Now, I have neither; I'm just Santana, alone inside my head in a way I never have been, and it isn't halfway to enough.

"Maybe," I answer finally, and then try to drive some of the despair out of my tone. "You said it yourself, I'm pretty old. Had a good run."

"Bullshit. I just got used to you."

I want her to lift me up out of this seat, hold me in her lap like she did after the crash. But she's already nursing one helpless infant, so I stand up blind, finding the open doorway with my fingertips. Before heading for my quarters, I offer a bittersweet smile.

"Haven't you figured that out yet, Britt? Sometimes bad things happen for no reason, and there's nothing you can do about it. How close did I come anyway?"

Her muttered curse tells me she hasn't even thought to find out where we are. "Not the best jump," she says, after a moment. "But not terrible. We're about three weeks out."

Eight days then. I added eight days to our trip, bu that's what it has to be, because I don't have another jump in me, not for a long fragging time, maybe never. I'll have to assess what I've got left after I rest. The way that I feel, it's just impossible to tell.

"Do we have the supplies to cover the longer haul?"

She sighs, and I hear her tapping away. And then: "Yeah, but after day seventeen we're going to be left eating nothing but paste. Hey," She calls after me. "Have Doc check you out!"

I dismiss that idea with a flick of my fingertips, but as I'm coming out of the cockpit, I collide hard with someone. I feel hands on my upper arms to steady me, but the faint floral scent surprises me; I didn't realize Quinn ever smelled so feminine. "Asshole," she gripes. "Watch where you're–oh _shit_, Santana. Are you…What happened?"

I just shake my head and brush by becauseI don't want to talk to her about it. Brittany can tell her anything she needs to know, or anything she feels like she does. Right now, i just want to be let alone.

"No visitors, no exceptions." I tell the room-bot.

"Acknowledged," it chirps.

I don't clean up. Though I'm probably a mess with all the dried blood, I just don't care, need to crash out on my bunk and close my eyes. Darkness falls fast–this sleep feels heavy and inevitable as my own death.

Yes, I must be dying because I hear Kai's voice...

_**"Ground control, this is the **_**Sargasso. **_**I'd like you to **__double check the suggested trajectory and coordinates. Our readings don't agree. That's going to put us on the ground about one hundred kicks from the landing site and–"_

_A hiss from the comm system, then an irritated male voice says, "The information you received is correct, _Sargasso. _Follow procedure. Control out."_

_We exchange a look, frowning. Although we're not jack in anymore, we share the feeling that something's wrong. I've had that sense since we left Soltai Station, and now that we're making our approach to Matins IV, the bad mojo doubles. Waiting for clearance in this giant bolt bucket, so different from the fast elegant ships we usually take out with a minimal four-man crew, we do our own math and come up with coordinates that differ dramatically from what the Corp landing authority has provided._

_When I nod in encouragement, Kai presses the call button again. "Ground control, this trajectory is not going to create sufficient drag for a vessel of this size. What you've given us is a crash waiting to happen."_

_There's a long, ominous silence, then: "_Sargasso_, you have seventy-five VIPs on board. Are you refusing to comply?"_

_Kai looks deeply troubled now, torn between the need to obey the Corp and the fact that we're both certain they're on the verge of doing something terrible, either from incompetence or some agenda we can't begin to guess._

_"No," she says slowly, "but–"_

_"This is your third denial of an approved flight plan. WE have no choice but to categorize this as a mutiny attempt and respond accordingly."_

_And then they aren't talking to us anymore. There's only silence, which is worse._

_"Going to autopilot," the computer announces with seeming delight. "Override codes accepted. Trajectory and coordinates received."_

_Oh no. No._

_"We can't survive a hit like this– there's no way–" I'm scrambling at the terminal now, trying to restore control on our end._

_"Satan, what the fuck're they doing…?"_

_"I wish I knew, baby."_

_Dream-Santana hasn't registered the full implication yet, but the rest of me knows what's coming. I want to scream, but this is scripted, so I just watch in puzzlement, part of me still not wanting to believe that the Corp, our benevolent big brother, will let us come to harm, or worse, _cause_ us harm. Kai, she's terrified, reaching for me as the plant rushes up to meet us. All around me the world dies._

_**I wake up screaming so my throat is raw, and there's **_someone pounding on my door, shouting, "Santana! _Santana!_ Captain's override, dammit, let me in!"

It's all coming back to me. Unit Psych Newel whispering through my dream therapy, "You wouldn't accept the Corp flight plans, would you, Lopez? You used your own calculations. Just say it. Say it, Lopez, and this will all be over. Say it, and I'll make everything all right."

Unlike so many other induced nightmares, this one carries a ring of truth. I know what they did to me, now– I just don't know why. As I'm lying there, bathed in icy sweat, I hear Brittany swearing, muffled murmurs of conversation:

"…Been almost three days," Quinn's voice. "I thought she was dead." She doesn't sound heartbroken that I'm not, actually.

"Open up, right now," Brittany growls, "or I get the cutting torch."

"No visitors," the room-bot tells her sweetly. "No exceptions."

If I didn't feel like such a pile of shit, I'd find that funny as hell.

_**So I'm up on Doc's exam table once again. **_

I'm starving, but he won't let me eat until he's finished with his teats. Not sure what the deal is, I feel fine. What I really want is a big bowl of pasta and a san-shower, not necessarily in that order. But he insists he needs to check me out because it's not normal for someone to sleep for three days without any sign of dehydration.

I try to tell him it's happened before, anytime I have a bad run–my body shuts down like that–but he's not listening. Instead, he's frowning over images of my brain. "That's impossible," he mutters.

Sighing, I ask, "Can I go? Please?"

"Hm? Yes, go ahead. Get something to eat and drink plenty of fluids."

I take his advice, after cleaning up a bit. The san-shower makes me feel almost human, and a change of clothing always helps. Today, I feel stronger than I have in months, so I dress accordingly: black bodysuit, black boots, and a touch of perfume. As always, my wild hair is hopeless, so I simply scrape it back.

Then I head to the galley, where I intend to eat a big plate of pasta, New Venice style, which means lots of s-cheese and red pepper. I find Kurt there, picking at his fruit. Looks like something's bothering him.

"You okay?" I ask the questions as I key my request and the kitchen- mate hums as it gets to work.

"I should not burden you with it," he says, after a long moment.

But that's a roundabout way of saying yes, so I spin to look at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He shakes his head. "You've been ill."

"Just exhausted, but I'm all right now, so talk to me." The kitchen-mate beeps, letting me know my food's ready, and the doors slide back to reveal a steaming bowl, which I handle carefully as I join Kurt at his table.

He watches me with unmistakable intensity, and just as the silence begins to feel uncomfortable, he sighs, and says, "You haven't thought about me at all, have you?" To be honest, I haven't. I'm not even sure what he's getting at. "Brittany told us, Santana. Everyone knows you're getting close to burnout, and if you keep jumping…"

It takes me a minute but I make the connection. "Oh shit."

His mouth twists. "Yes precisely. Is there any chance Brittany was wrong? That you can make the rest of these jumps?"

_I wish I knew. _Somehow I thought it'd be clear, that I'd be able to pinpoint how many jumps remain to me. I always thought jumpers chose to go in style instead of the sad impotence of retirement. Now I'm seeing that simply isn't so.

Because even now that I'm rested, I don't know how much I have left in reserve. My next jump could be my last, or I might make twenty more. I'm just not sure, but I am positive I'm not as strong as I used to be. The cruelly candid Santana forces me to acknowledge that Brittany is the majority of the reason I made it the last time.

With a soft sigh, I shake my head. "I don't know."

"Do you have any near relatives?"

"Just my parents, but I haven't spoken to them in years." It's one thing to feel resigned to my own death, quite another to know I'm condemning someone else. "I could look into adopting Brittany, though." As the words leave my mouth, I know I've only made things worse.

He stand, slamming his char back, and I register the glitter in his eyes as anger. "This is just a big joke to you. I wish you'd let me take my chances on Lachion."

There's nothing I can say to that, and so I watch him go. Now I'm the one picking at my food, though I was starving a few minutes before. Knowing I need the energy, I force myself to est.

"You just never stop making friends, do you?" Quinn saunters to the kitchen-mate and makes herself a hot drink.

_Guess she ran into Kurt._

"Yeah. If it wasn't for you, I'd be the biggest asshole on this ship."

But she just grins as she joins me without waiting for an invitation. "So you're real dying or what?"

"Not if I can figure out a way around it." Saying it aloud cements my resolve. "It'd be different if it was just me, but it isn't. I'd forgotten that."

Quinn takes a sip from the gleaming silver mug. "If you were married or life-bonded, your partner would serve as next of kin."

I raise a brow. "Is that a proposal?"

"Mary forefend. I was just giving you the big picture."

As I shove a bunch of noodles in my mouth, something's nagging me. I chew slowly, thinking it over. "Technically, I think I _am_."

"What?"

"Married."

She pauses, mug in midair. "You heartless slut. Making illegitimate lizard-babies with Brittany and leading her on. She's going to be devastated."

"I think it's more a frog-baby actually." But I wave away her bullshit, convinced I'm onto something. "Seriously listen. I got married about ten turns ago. He was Corp, permanently assigned to Soltai Station, which was my home base also, but the way I traveled with Kai, well, it was more than Simon could stand. We separated, Mary, I don't even remember when. But I don't think we ever dissolved the marriage legally. He said something about wanting to keep the higher bennies, and I didn't mind. Kai wasn't the marrying kind."

"You got higher bennies for being married?" Of all things to focus on…but she looks pissed off.

"More R&R, family days, that kind of thing."

"What about life-mates? Do they get equal treatment?"

"I don't know," I say in exasperation. "What the hell do you care how the Corp handles same-sex benefits? Are you looking to sign on?"

She sighs, conceding the point. "Fine. So you think your estranged husband could save Kurt? Is that it?"

"I'm not sure, but…is there something that states Kurt must be in physical proximity of his protector at all times?"

"Not that I know of, but I'm not an expert on _shinai_-disposition by any means. So you're thinking–"

"If something happens to me, Simon nominally becomes Kurt's protector but would remain unaware of his existence. Until Kurt receives his first order from Simon, which will never come, my last order should be binding."

Quinn smiles slowly. "That's remarkably clever. Since you told him he's forbidden to do anything but what he wants, if he doesn't want to go looking for Simon–"

"Then he stays on the _Folly_ and does whatever he pleases. In theory that cycle could continue, as long as Kurt lives."

"With us, he doesn't need to worry about actual physical protection," she concludes. "That's a tidy solution. Obviously, the _shinai_-bond isn' supposed to function like that, so you'll need to check with Kurt to ensure it will suffice, but otherwise, I think yo may have found a loophole."

"Would you do me a favor and talk to Kurt about it? He's pretty pissed at me."

"Sure."

I feel a little lighter. Even if something horrible happens to me soon, and it most likely will, maybe I won't drag Kurt down with me. It's been years since I spoke with Simon, but I wouldn't send Kurt to him, even if we were on friendly terms. To the best of my recollection, he's a serious, dutiful man, who lives for rules, regulations, and order. I don't know what I was thinking when I married him except that he had a nice ass and gorgeous eyes.

"Quinn…" I pause, wondering at the wisdom of bringing this up. But she probably still thinks that Rachel knew she was to die. "If it means anything, Rachel didn't make the choice to leave you. She didn't know it was her last flight until she jacked in."

Her face pales, hazel eyes livid. "How do you know that? How can you?"

"You can't _tell _with any precision, Quinn. It's a myth, put out by the Corp so jumpers won't be afraid. They started telling us that to keep their shuttles running and their shipments on time. So we go on believing we'll know our last flight before we get to it, believing we'll have a choice between burnout and retirement. But that's just not the case. Maybe some jumpers figure it out, after a terrible run like I just had. Then they have the choice of never jacking in again, but I don't. Not unless we want to spend our lives on Matt-Rutherford's Kingdom."

"All this time," she says studying her hands, "I thought she just didn't have the balls to say good-bye. I thought she was trying to be brave, keeping it to herself. After everything, all we were to each other–"

"I know that's not the case. She must have felt terrible regret when she realized she'd never see you again."

Her eyes shine too bright, and I make an abortive move to comfort her, at which she jackknifes to her feet. "Touch me, and I kill you." And she bolts from the galley, leaving me to deal with her dirty mug.

Sighing, I finish my pasta.

_**We're sick of the ship and sick of each other.**_

A three-week haul is just too long at close quarters. Nobody's mood improves when the kitchen-mate runs dry, and we're left sucking supper out of a packet. At first, Doc tries to keep everyone polite and social, but after the millionth game of mahjongg, I'm done. I've spent the last four days in my quarters, reading Mair's files on the other nine planets. I don't know if I'll live to see them, but it can't hurt to be prepared. And PA-245 is better company than most of my shipmates.

But I don't know whether to be worried or relieved when Brittany broadcasts on the comm, "We have visual on Matt-Rutherford's Kingdom, docking in less than an hour."

"If they don't shoot us down first," I mutter.

"Are you presently in physical danger?" the little machine inquires.

"I'm not sure. Hard to know what to expect of Matt-Rutherford, he embellishes his own legend so much." Don't ask me why I'm answering; we've been having conversations like this for the last four days. "Listen, I've got to go, 245."

I close the sphere wit this weird feeling of regret, Know that sounds stupid and maybe a bit nuts, but I _like _my PA. And that's not typical for me. I despise most AIs, who seem to be coded to maximize the annoyance they can cause.

Since I'm not sure what the near future holds, I don a gauzy red shirt, yes, the color of blood and mourning–both seem appropriate under the circumstances–and a pair of s-leather trousers. You never know what climate control will will be like on these old stations, so I add a matching black jacker and stuff the PA into my pocket on impulse.

Then I tug on my boots. The wardrobe on Lachion got them just right, so there's room for me to conceal a blade there, if only I had one. That might just get us in trouble, though. So wish I had some jewelry, since throwbacks like Matt-Rutherford respect lavish ornamentation. As I don't, I improvise with perfume.

To my surprise, the ship's already empty when I emerge from quarters. At first, I'm more than a little pissed, but that's the nab-star coming out. I'm not a celebrity, not even in an artificial, Corp-crafted world, and since this isn't a jim, they're capable go handling the situation. Now I have some distance from the old Santana, I can admit Brittany was right. Thought I was special because I possessed some pull in the Corp, Because I tagged some new beacons, encounters a few new races, and didn't die of stupidity.

But when you come right down to it, that's a shitty reason for thinking you're somebody. The J-gene isn't something I accomplished on my own. It was genetic lottery, which I won, then spent almost fifteen turns acting like it was entitlement.

No wonder most of them hated me when I first came on board. In retrospect, I don't see much I like, either. And it finally occurs to me…maybe they didn't disembark so much as were taken, in which case, they may be relying on me for help.

_Shit._ Subtlety is not my strength, and I can almost hear Brittany chuckling over the understatement. So what am I supposed to do?

Thinking about it yields no ready solution, but I'd rather die than sit another minute on this ship. So that decides it. I press the panel, and the boarding ramp lowers with a whir that sounds louder in the empty bay. As I step off, I realize I don't have a remote key to the ship, so I'm stuck here until I find the others.

It's cold, as docks tend to be, just a few meters of metal separating space and me. _Definitely not a hug-tech place._ I see no bots preforming maintenance, though there are a couple other ships nearby, and all of them look worse then the _Folly._ There's only one door, so I head toward it. Perhaps I should be nervous; the place seems to be deserted–

An antiquated speaker crackles, and a deep male voice asks, "Who're you then, pretty?"

It's been a long damn time since I heard anything like that. Even before Matins IV, I was never apt to win beauty pageants. And I guess my unseen interrogator's waiting for a response, but I don't see how I'm supposed to reply.

Then I hear Brittany in the background, muffled but distinct: "She's with us."

The leprous metal door clangs open, and I'm permitter to enter Matt-Rutherford's Kingdom. The view is decidedly industrial, derelict mining trolls and scavenged parts spread like mechanical intestines along the walls. I proceed with caution and come down a long, dim corridor into a larger space.

Wish I'd seen the place before we docked; now I'm wondering about the design of the station itself. Three corridors adjoin from here, north, east, and west. I think this must've been the docking authority, where spacers paid for their bay and use of other facilities. Now it's just empty but for a couple of closed-up windows that seem to bear out my theory.

"Come west, Santana." That's Doc, being helpful.

It it were anyone else, I'd probably turn east, but I trust Sam as much as I trust anyone. And then I start to hear voices, so I follow the hallway until I emerge in what has to be Matt's "throne room," hung with war trophies and contraband weapons. My shipmates stand in a semicircle, as if awaiting judgement. In the far corner, there are tables and benches occupied by a scruffy lotos the usual suspects, but the larger space remains devoted to an elevated pilot's chair, festooned with could wire and chains.

_Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace, is that him?_

If people are talking to me, I don't hear it, just gazing at the man sprawled on the makeshift dais. Damn, he's…delicious: at least two meters tall, muscular, skin smooth as s-caramel, and long wild braids trinketed wit platinum and diamond glints. Just looking at hime, I want to say he deserves every bit of his roguish reputation.

_And please, can I be the pounder?_

Probably accustomed to this reaction, Matt gives me a slow grin, revealing white teeth, except for the front two, which appear to be solid gold. His voice is low and rich, lightly accented with a Daregno drawl unless I miss my guess. "Seem you keeping' better company, Brittany. Maybe I won't kill you after all."

At this point, I notice the tension in this tableau. "Was that an option?If I get a vote, I'm going to say you don't."

"San.." Brittany casts me a dark look. Maybe she thinks I'm going to frag things up, but it doesn't look like I can make it worse. She cups a hand protectively over baby-Z, and I wonder if that topic's been bridged yet.

"You got some stones, gurl, askin' me for a favor."

Oh, that's interesting. Brittany never did tell me what history she had with Matt. Looks like I'm about to find out, and as I'm waiting, it occurs to me that the other three are pretty quiet. Especially Quinn–if she's locked down her mouth, then we're in serious shit, aren't we?

Beside me, Brittany nods almost imperceptibly. "I know we didn't part on the best terms after the Nicuan conflict," she says, "but this is actually a humanitarian mission."

What a great laugh, deep, ringing, and infectious. I fight an answering chuckle even though I don't know what's going on. "Not on the best terms–you funny, Brittany. First you stole my woman, then my ship, left to die on that Mary-forsaken rock. But you make me curious, so I'll give yo a minute before I kill you. Tel me your story."

Brittany seems stuck, though. Her body language tells me she's at a loss, so I step into the breach. If there's one thing I know how to do, it's run my mouth.

"I'm sorry I missed the introductions." I step forward and offer my best smile. "But I'm Santana Lopez. And we've come looking for Jacob Isreal. Do you know him?"

He's already nodding. "My library man, yah. What you want him for?"

"During our travels, we found this little guy."

Against Brittany's muted protest, I give Matt a glimpse of the docile amphibian curled against her chest. Z raises his head and peers around with protuberant eyes. Yeah, he's definitely grown a bit, and he's taking an interest in his environment.

"Grrrr-upp," Z says, from deep in his throat.

We've managed to surprise the big man. "What the hell is that?"

"He's a hatchling," Doc volunteers. "And Jacob Isreal is an expert on the Mareq. So if we have any hope of raising this fellow, it's imperative we confer with him."

Folding his arms, Matt studies the lot of us, as if wondering whether this is the whole story. Of course it isn't, but I know they don't want me blabbing anything else. "Well, I make no creed killin' babies," he says finally. "But I give you access to Isreal, you gift me something back, yah?"

"What do you have in mind?" Brittany asks, closing her shirt over baby-Z, who doesn't go quietly, and her burgeoning maternal instinct strikes me as pretty damn funny.

Matt glances between Quinn and me. I suppose we do make a nice visual contrast–I'm dark where's fair, and she's thick where I'm thin. "Oh…I think we can work something out."

I'm afraid to look at Quinn.


	10. Chapter 10

_**GRIMSPACE**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or Any of the Sirantha Jax series by Ann Aguirre that this is based on.

Her next Jump, may just be her last.

_**CHAPTER 10**_

_**Instead of executing the lot of us, Matt throws a party.**_

I think it's a display of power more than true hospitality. Everything in his demeanor says–_You are subject to my will, and I choose to be merciful, remember this. _Or maybe he'll just seize any excuse to celebrate. He really is a throwback, albeit an utterly delicious one.

No chance to talk to anyone else, as the throne room comes alive with lights and music, a thrumming bass-heavy beat that sounds tribal, and as the rovers get to their feet to form a stomping, spinning circle of dancers, I notice almost no women, and his interest in Quinn and me becomes less flattering and more alarming.

But I can't worry about that right now. They're laying the tables with fresh food, and it smells fantastic. My mouth waters at the prospect of eating something that doesn't need to be sucked out of a packet. They offer fresh fruit and vegetables, so there must be a hydroponics garden somewhere on station. Next the serve meat in sauce, which means t's likely synth-protein in disguise. For the perfect finish, ass steaming baskets of bread with peppered oil for dipping. And let's not forget the sweet, cold Parnassian red.

Yeah, I'm going to be here awhile.

I lose sight of how many times m cup's refilled, but it doesn't seem to matter. Everything loses its immediacy, gaining a pleasant veil, where the most important thing I need to do is shrug out of my jacket and join the dancers. Someone takes me by the waist, and I stomp along with him, trying to mimic he side-winding circle we seem to be making. I should really be wearing a big bell skirt for this, more dramatic in the spins.

After a while, I lose track of how many men catch me and spin me toward them. But I definitely notice when Matt steps in. Not seeing him would be like missing a solar eclipse. For a few moments, we simply dance, and I hear Quinn saying from somewhere, "If she wants to shag him, _let _her. I don't want to die for saying no, although if I was going to try a man, it'd be him."

Then he leads me from the revelry, past the pilot's chair toward a sunken area filled with padded couches. He indicates I should sit, and I do, feeling the music pulsing through the soles of my boots. As he drops down beside me, the lights flicker over his skin, painting him in silver streaks and giving his strong features an almost demonic cast. But there's fascination in his darkly glittering eyes; he's everything a civilized woman isn't supposed to want. He might treat her like an empress or a whore as the mood strikes him, but she'd never possess the faintest doubt that he owned her, body and soul.

"Where you get such fine scars, lovely?" His voice rumbles like a purr near my ear, and I glance down in confusion, before realizing the diaphanous fabric of my blouse reveals the old burns along my arms and shoulders.

"Crash landing." That seems like an oversimplification, but I retain just enough presence of mind to be wary.

"Musta been a bad one," he comments, touching my shoulder lightly. It takes a moment, but I realize he's tracing the pattern through my shirt with a fingertip.

I nod. "They don't come any worse."

He regards me a moment, seeming thoughtful. "I think I know who you are now."

_Shit. Be cool, Lopez._

"Oh?"

"Your bad crash was the _Sargasso,_ yah?" Matt doesn't wait for an answer. "So you must be Brittany's jumper."

There's no point in lying; that will just piss him off because he's already sure. "I'm not on good terms with the Corp anymore, though." Like that needs to be said.

He laughs. "We're both kill on sight, I think."

I think I just increased my value to him, although I'm not sure if it's because I have a Corp bounty on my head or because I can jump. MAybe it's a combination of the two. So what now? I can't afford to make him mad, and the wine's beginning to wear off.

"Yeah, although I'm sure they've listed me as officially flatline. The bounty hunters they're sending after me are strictly on the slide."

"So tell me, Santana Lopez, are bad things chasin' you here?

I jerk my eyes back to his face, but he doesn't seem angry. In fact, if anything, he looks amused. "I don't know. Think we lost them in grim space, but–"

"Don't worry, pretty. I'll fix it."

Well, I don't have the slightest doubt of that, but I'm not sure his solution will benefit us. I'm frankly astonished that we didn't get blasted before docking, and I have to wonder what Brittany said that garnered safe temporary passage. Knowing Brittany, it may have been something like: _Don't you want to see my face when you kill me?_

"Are all the sat ion's external weapons functional?" Hopefully he won't take that as me probing for information that could be used against him.

Matt gives me an indulgent smile, leaning closer. Damn, he smells good, a spicy, smoky scent that renders narcotic. "Don't fret bout that. Nobody gets in I don't want here, true. Now I'm gone ask you, what you know bout my business outside?"

"Nothing, really." And that's the truth; most of what I've heard is speculation. Because who the hell ever gets to meet Matt? If they did, this place would be overrun with women wanting to play pirates with him.

"Me, I got a fleet of ships, and we appropriate goods from the Corp shippin' lanes, keep what we need and sell the rest in the outskirts." He seems to study me as if waiting for me to ask an obvious question.

So I consider for a moment. "That means you have jumpers. From where?"

In fact, this gets me thinking about Rachel. Where did Brittany find her? The Corp led us to believe we were the only source of trained jumpers. Of course they also had me thinking my shit didn't stink, so maybe I should stop believing _anything _I learned from them. It might make adjustment to the real world easier.

Matt grins, his gold from teeth gleaming. "The Corp's very wasteful. Hide jumpers away, don't even try to fix them. I smuggle them out, two or three at a time."

He must be talking about the broken ones, who suffer bad jumps and can't quite rebound. They wind up nervous, twitching, and heavily medicated in station asylums. And there are other, who possess the J-gene and begin training but lack the mental strength to handle grimspace. they're the saddest of all. But I rather he's making use of these lost should somehow.

"How can you repair them?"

"My biomechanics. Not much personality after he's through, but my jumpers get the job done."

Part of me feels repulsed. Clearly he's talking about a mechanical integration that robs them of their humanity, but then again, what sort of life did they have, sedated in the asylums? Is being made useful any worse than remaining lost to horrors nobody else can see? I don't feel qualified to judge.

"That's…enterprising," I say at least.

His arm drift around me, his large hand lighting on my far shoulder. "But you don't wanna talk ' bout that right now."

I'd have been an idiot not to know where this is heading, but I'm not sure how I should react. How long since Kai died? How soon is too soon? But Matt _is _gorgeous, and if I can procure safe passage with a few nights of sex, why wouldn't I?

"What then?" I let myself lean against him, surprised by his heat and solidity.

"Me, I don't think you wanna talk at all." He runs his hand beneath the weight of my hair, long fingers flexing into my neck, and it feels good.

I find myself tilting my head, though he's applying minimal pressure, and I think that the point. Another exercise of power–I'm supposed to offer my mouth._Wonder if he like to play master/slave girl in the bedroom._ That's not my thing; I don't enjoy submission, but maybe I'll give it a try, this once.

Still, I can't bring myself to close the few centimeters between our lips. It's just not my style, and I enjoy being chased, like it when a person makes an effort. That says I'm worth the trouble to pursue, although it's been a long time. First, I was Simon's wife, then Kai's woman, although my toes curl, remembering the way Kai used to tantalize me.

Matt gives a low, husky laugh, as if he realizes I'm not going to prove an easy conquest. It'll take more than his proximity and the brush of his fingertips on the nape of my neck. And then he whispers, "Oh, I _am _gone enjoy you, pretty."

The flickering lights and the throbbing music only add to the surreal quality of the moment, as he leans close. So close, I smell the wine on his breath. I can almost taste his kiss, and while I'm not advancing, I don't pull back, either.

_I'm actually going to do it._

From a million miles away, I hear someone clear their throat. "Santana. You're needed on the _Folly_. It's urgent."

Feeling giddy, I turn to see Brittany behind us, and she doesn't look happy.

_**So far, I don't see any urgency.**_

Doc has brought Jacob Israel back to the ship to show him the formula he used in synthesizing the nutri-gel Brittany has been smearing on her chest for almost a month. I guess Quinn and Kurt are still on station, enjoying the party. Israel is a short man with nervous hands, the sort who spills things compulsively, then makes the mess exponentially worse with his apologetic daubing. It's almost impossible to imagine him living rough for years, as he reputedly did during his covert study on Mareq.

"I can believe you did this," Israel's saying, not for the first time I imagine. "Stole on of the hatchlings. It's abominable."

"You'd prefer we left it to die?" Brittany snaps.

Fortunately, Doc remembers we need this man's help, and adds in appeasement, "Yes, a regrettable necessity, to be sure, but think of the opportunities for study. You'll have a chance to verify all your observations at close range, won't you? I think it should be safe to take samples."

I still don't see why I'm needed here.

Israel brightens. "Well, that's certainly true. You seem to have gotte him–"

"It's a him?" Doc wants to know.

The scientist nods. "…past the initial hurdle, which means you're going to see an increase in activity. Typically the offspring stays close to its parent, participating in–"

Brittany seizes my arm then, hauling me out of medical and down toward the hub, but she doesn't stop there, towing me toward the dormitory section like a derelict craft. I scowl up at her, yank out of her grasp, and stand there rubbing my biceps.

"What's the _matter_ with you?

"I need to talk to you privately," she bites out.

Around this point, I notice she's seething. Furious, in fact, although she's done a fair job of reigning it back u until now. The door slides shut behind us; this is the first time I've seen her quarters, but they're standard, devoid of personal effects.

I fold my arms. "So talk."

"Are you nuts, San? Don't mess with someone like Matt."

Ha, I certainly never imagined she'd care about my virtue. I wave a hand dismissively. "Don't worry, I'm not stringing him along. It won't be a hardship to keep him warm while we're here."

She just gapes at me, like it's impossible for her to imagine someone sleeping with me. I know I don't look as good as I did before the crash, but I'm a rocket in bed. Maybe Matt knows that, so he's not put off by the scars.

"You can't be serious."

"About what?" I ask, incredulous.

"Sleeping with Matt." Her tone suggests I'd be whoring myself out.

"Why?" I start ticking off reasons to do so on my fingers. "He's gorgeous, he smells good, it's been a long time since I had sex, and he might kill us if we piss him off." Yeah, the last reason does sound like pandering, but still, if I want to, and it keeps Matt happy, what's the big deal? "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."

I can actually see her jaw working, like she's struggling with something, then she growls, "How about this?"

And then she's in my space, body pressed up against mine. She's hard against me, and she cups my cheek in her palm as she lowers her head to claim my mouth with hers. Oh Mary, I'd never have guess Brittany could kiss like this, deep and devouring. I kiss her back, arms up around her neck, biting gently at her lips. She tastes like sweet wine and promises, and her tongue strokes mine in possession, telling me wordlessly why she doesn't want me keeping Matt warm.

I feel her hands on my hips, tugging me closer. She breaks the kiss, leaning her forehead against mine, and I know she can feel how my hear gallops, hearing my hitching breath. She probably sense more than that, come to it, my first pulses of arousal.

Her voice sounds soft now, teasing. "How about it, San? Is that a good reason?"

"Maybe," I whisper.

"Maybe? Maybe, she says. "But when I tip my head back, I see that she's smiling. "It's been awhile for both of us. I don't see any reason for that to continue."

My words come out husky. Unsteady. "I'd just be using you for sex."

Her eyes have the power to stop me in my tracks. I've been fighting this for weeks now, refusing to admit it even to myself. How much she draws me in.

She gives me a slow smile. "I can live with that."

"Why would I pick you over Matt, though?" Oh, I'm a bitch for teasing her.

And it _is _a tease, because I've been noticing the strength of her body and the round curve of her ass for weeks now. But I can tell she doesn't mind by the way she moves me against herself, slow drugging circle, hip to hip.

"Remember who you're dealing with, San. I know all kinds of things about what you want."

"This is probably a bad idea." Last-ditch effort to turn things aside, even though I don't want to and Brittany knows it.

She had me as soon as she cupped my hips in her hands and moved me against her, just so. If I'm completely honest with myself, she had me weeks ago, when she promised she'd always come for me. I'm not sure I'm _ready_ for this, but damn, do I want her.

"Mmhm." She finds my ear, licks a trail down to the lobe. "So tell me no, San."

_Oh Mary, that's good._

"No," I breathe.

"You're saying no?" Now _she's _incredulous.

I give her a slow smile. "I'm refusing to say no."

Then we're a blur of questing hands. I want her naked, right now, although the desire to bare my scarred, skinny self is considerably less. She shakes her head in peeling my trousers down, and I don't need to ask to know that's mean as reassurance. I'd almost forgotten the perfection of sexing your pilot. She's beautiful: creamy, pale skin, strong shoulders, and a tight, etched stomach.

Brittany pushes me back onto her bunk and I run my palms up her chest. I feel the residue of the nutri-gel, and that makes me smile, although it melts into a moan. She's not gentle, she wasn't kidding when she said she knows what I want. I feel her teeth next, almost enough to hurt, and the gush of response makes me draw my knees up, making room between them.

"Like that?" She whispers into my skin. "Like that, San?" As she trails her fingers down my belly, teasing me because she knows how much I want her to go lower.

"Like that. But more." I buck my hips, and she relents, dipping her fingers into me with a long, languid motion.

Oh Mary, the way she touches me–it's like she know exactly how–but then she does, doesn't she? I whimper and arch, twisting beneath an intensity I've never know. She strokes me, her lips roving until I can't stand any more.

"Too much?" The bitch, she's taunting me.

"On your back," I manage to order.

It's her turn. Maybe I don't know her hot spots automatically, but I'll figure it out. With a smirk, Brittany rolls over and I run my hands over her body, caressing here and there. Gauging her reaction. Grinning wickedly, I settle astride, my thighs framing hers. She shudders beneath me when she feels my slick skin. My weight amplifies the sensation, and I seesaw on her, watching her face.

"San…" Now she's the one gasping, although it feels fragging amazing to me, too, as I run my hands over her breasts. I see the scars I speculated about so long ago, long and livid. Yeah, she's seen combat. The one above her hip looks like they almost get her. That gives me a twinge that I don't like.

"I'm just using you for sex," I remind her, husky and low.

"So use me." Her abdominal muscles ripple and go tight as she struggles to hold herself still. "Use me, San."

I need no further invitation. Cupping her core, I give her clit a flick with my thumb, which elicits a groan, then I slip two fingers in her. Her hands come to my hips, resuming my motion on her thigh as I start a rhythm within her.

_Oh Mary, that's so good._

Brittany doesn't need to be told how I want to ride her thigh. We fill the room with liquid sounds and our labored breathing. Sometimes she moans; sometimes I do. I love the feel of her hands roving my body, demanding and possessive, pulling me down against her.

I feel the pressure building as I move on her, sweet, delicious heat , the she flicks her fingers over my clit. My whole body locks. Her body rolls with me then, pushing my legs up.

"My turn," she whispers.

And I don't have the energy to resist as she takes me her way, rotating her body in a way that our cores slip and slide against each other. I'm so relaxed at first that I don't register the tingles surging through me.

_Again? Really?_

Then I hear Brittany inside my head, just as she locks up above me. _Again, San. I'm using you for sex._

Right now, I feel that's about the best news I've ever heard.

_**I sneak out like I'm leaving the scene of a crime.**_

As I dart into my quarters, part of me feels that I am, actually. I know it doesn't mean anything, and it doesn't touch what I felt for Kai. Because I'm alive, and I'm a biological organism, I know I need to be touched, but that awareness doesn't assuage my guilt. In some ways I think it would've been better if I'd picked MAtt for some throwaway sex because I wouldn't have to seen him on a daily basis hereafter.

In fact, I'm not entirely sure why Brittany cared whether I slept with Matt. Maybe it's a pride thing, which is stupid. It's not like I'm untouched. Between my marriage breaking down and falling in love with Kai, I did my share of fucking around.

But there was no premeditation with Kai; one night we were drinking and dancing, right after we tagged the beacon nearest the Belsev system–and she asked me how come we'd never slept together. She knew most jumpers and pilots do test the waters at least once, so she was wondering if I didn't find her attractive. That certainly wasn't the case; she was adorable, blond feminine good looks.

I didn't have an answer, so after some more drinking, we wound up naked. And it was fantastic. She was fun in bed, playful, but her best quality had to be how she listened. When she propped her chin on her hand and gazed at you with those liquid green eyes, you knew you were the only person in her world right then.

_God, I miss her._

She certainly wasn't your typical woman. Sometimes I'd try to make her jealous, point out someone I thought was delicious, and she'd give me a deceptively mild smile. "Go ahead," she'd say. "Try someone else if you want. But they won't be me."

_No, baby. She'll never be you._

First time we talked about commitment, she said, "I don't believe in that, Satan. People stay true as long as they _want _to, regardless of spoken promises or legal imposed obligations. But we're good together, and I want to be with you as long as you want me back."

I meant to clean up, but instead I drop down on my bunk, startled by the yearning that overtakes me. Who knew sex would make me feel so fragging lonely? There's a dull throb snide me, the ache of long-unused muscles, and I press my knees together, trying to forget what I've just done.

If I let myself, I could cry, but I've done far too much of that in the last few weeks. Instead, I measure my breathing until the urge subsides; and then I do take that shower, washing away the evidence. Maybe this is no revelation, but it feels like one to me; good sex just isn't enough. I won't do that again for a while.

I dress in somber clothing that covers me neck to ankle, permitting no glimpse of skin. Now I'm not sure what to do; I don't want to sleep with Matt anymore, but I imagine he's not a man who handles rejection well, not that he receives much of it. Still, I'm not accomplishing anything cowering in my quarters, so I head out.

Although I know it's beyond idiotic, I can't help skulking, peeking around doorways, then making a dash for the engine room, where I find a spare remote. I pocket that. I'd like to avoid Brittany for the next five to ten turns. Failing that, a day or two will suffice. I retrace my steps, and I'm surprised to find the door out of the docking bay opens for me automatically. I guess it's been coded to recognize me, a measure I didn't expect so quickly, and it makes me wonder what Matt's planning.

To my surprise, the party seems to be over. I would have guessed such things went on all night; shows what I know. There's just a few scruffy spacers left playing Charm, and they peer at me over their cards.

"Looking for the boss?" One of them smirks at me.

Might as week get it over with, right? So I nod. "Know where he is?"

"Yeah, he took the blonde girl upstairs."

"The one who arrived with us?" I try to conceal my astonishment. There's a development I never saw coming, but then again, something about Matt…damn. Though I've made up my mind to stay off sex, I'm still tempted, remembering his smoky-spicy scent.

He nods. "You want us to deal you in?"

"That depends. You playing by Venice Minor rules?"

Dumb question, I know. Men rarely play Charm by Venice Minor rules unless they're competing against women. There's just no motivation to seeing each other naked, except in specialized circle. But I don't have any creds to wager. I bet my accounts have been frozen, and trying to access them would send up a red flag.

The me exchange a look and start laughing, the the spokesman answers, "Well, we _weren't_…"

I shake my head. "I'd rather look around. Will restricted areas be inaccessible or clearly marked?"

"Yeah, you won't be able to go anywhere you're not supposed to be. Be careful, though, we don't use the third deck, so no telling what's up there."

Nodding, I follow the corridor leading in the opposite direction. His mention of a third deck gives me a sense of the station's design, however, and I envision the slow revolution of each tier, creating gravity that keeps my feet on the floor. To my surprise, a large space past the throne room appears to be a library. Matt even possess some ancient ink-and-paper books, though those are housed within a protective case.

"Find what you're looking for?" I spin to see Quinn standing in the doorway. She doesn't _look_ like she's been ravished, though.

I spare a moment to give thanks that she didn't see me slipping out of Brittany's room. Mary knows, I'd never live that down. "Don't know what that'd be."

She offers a faint smile. "Nobody ever does until it's gone, then they realize they had it all along."

_Depressing but insightful. _

"The rovers told me you went upstairs with Matt." A nice, noncommittal statement, and yeah, okay, I'm dying to know but I won't _ask._ That would be rude. Wouldn't it?

At that she laughs. "Yeah, there's a bazaar on the second deck. I'll beheading back later with some trade goods so we can restock the kitchen-mate. The 'kingdom; runs primarily on barter." She lifts a brow. "You didn't think–"

"Of course not," I say quickly. "But…well, he _does_ smell good…"

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Male pheromones don't work on me. Now if he sprayed himself with bitch-in-heat, he might get somewhere."

_Pheromones?_ Was that the smoky-spicy scent? Here I though it was Matt himself who put me in the mood…and then wound up on top of Brittany–_ah, shit. _I want to cringe, but I refuse to give Quinn any ammunition. Since I told her about Rachel, there'e been a sense of amnesty between us, but I won't tempt her to break the cease-fire.

"Right. Guess I'll go check out the bazaar. Which way?"

"Follow the hall left, first right, down at the end is the lift. It's a bit temperamental, though." As I head out, she adds, "Be careful, Santana. Matt's being too cooperative, and men like him aren't prime to forgiveness. I feel like we're sitting in the eye of the storm."

I flash a had smile over my shoulder. "How's that different from any other day?" Then it occurs to me, she may be able to answer the question that's been bugging me since we docked, so I turn around. "What's the deal with Brittany and Matt anyway?"

She shrugs. "I've been part of her crew maybe five turns now. She hired us out of Gehenna, right out from under anther captain."

When she says "us," she must be talking about Rachel and the other pilot, which means Brittany stopped flying quite some time ago. I wonder why that is, not that I'll inquire, seeing as I'll be avoiding her for the next month or so, at least. Now that I glimpse the big picture, Quinn's been through a hell of a lot.

"Made a better offer?" I ask.

"We thought so, a cut of every job, not just flat wages. Anyway, maybe Kurt knows; he's been with her the longest. Or yo could try asking Brittany."

I snort. "Yeah…' Cause she's so forthcoming."

"Ask Matt. I bet he'd tell you." Quinn smirks, sauntering down the hall toward me.

"I think you may be right. And that worries me."

"Me being right or Matt being willing to answer you're questions?"

Pausing, I try to put my finger on what's bothering me. "Both?" I flinch when she slams her fist into my shoulder, playfully. This woman could kick my ass one-handed. "No…Matt, I think. His attitude strikes me as wrong somehow. You're right; he's too accommodating."

She sighs, plainly agreeing with me. And that's a first. "Well, you know what they say, sweetness. When you get a bad feeling, collect your creds and jump."

I nod. "Yeah, we need to get out of here as soon as possible."

But as Matt comes down the hall towards me, smiling as if he's won a raffle, I think that may prove easier said than done.


	11. Chapter 11

_**GRIMSPACE**_

A/N: sorry this took so long to come out, I kind of got addicted to Star Wars: The Old Republic, but I updated finally and I'm rambling, so back to the story….

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or Any of the Sirantha Jax series by Ann Aguirre that this is based on.

Her next Jump, may just be her last.

_**CHAPTER 11**_

_**I am toured out.**_

Matt has shown me around, although I haven't seen his suite, and I thought that would be our first stop. Maybe I just overestimated his interest? Mary knows, it's not I'm irresistible, but the juxtaposition bothers me. He's gone from amorous, aspiring lover to gracious guide in three hours, and that's just…not right.

Anyway, the back portions of the first two decks are allotted to housing, but I have no idea what an apartment here looks like. So I've duly admired the hydroponics garden, his extensive library, which he's had Jacob Israel cataloging for the last two turns, and of course, the oddly intriguing bazaar, where permanent residents trade among themselves. Raiders have to do _something _when they're not raiding.

I particularly like the artists' section of the promenade. It's a touch of elegance I hadn't expected in such a place, but I suppose it's human nature to war to adorn one's living space, and when you're isolated, your best recourse is to tap your own creativity. So I commend the bold paintings and metal sculptures and various oddments.

There's even a dark skin woman, shaven completely bald, demonstrating the ancient art of the glass-dancer. Her movements flow smooth as the delicate treasures she creates from bad chemicals, a sensual symbiosis of form and function. As I watch her, I think this ritual surely harks bask to out Lady of Anabolic Grace, whose very name symbolizes the sanctity of change.

"Who is she?" I ask, admiring her.

"A priestess," Matt tells me, and leads me on.

Somehow I'm not surprised, and I cast a look over my shoulder. The artist dances, oblivious to onlookers, and I know I have never passed closer to Mary's grace than this moment. Of course there are more mundane vendors, selling refurbished droids, Pas, used clothing, footwear, hacking codes, weapons, oh, yeah, _lots_ of those. There's a whole aisle of stalls devoted to them: shocksticks, blades, sappers, you name it, you can find it here, but the trick is finding something the seller wants in exchange because in Matt-Rutherford's Kingdom, they don't deal in creds. If this lay beneath an open sky, it would reming me of the starport market at Gehenna.

We stop last at the food stalls, just couple really, people offering fresh fruit and vegetables, bread and wine. I don't know what they want in exchange, but when Matt stops by, they offer food and libation freely. Well, he _is _the king, after all.

I take a sip, more Parnassian red. Good stuff, but I don't let it go to my head this time. He still smells wonderful, but now that I know it's a chemical effect, I find him easier to resist. Plus, I've gotten laid recently, which doesn't hurt.

"So what happened between you and Brittany anyway?" Quinn said he'll answer me. Maybe he will.

He shrugs. "A woman,years ago, she chose her over me."

"Why in Mary's name would she do that?" I blurt out the question before I stop to think about it, but fortunately he's flattered, giving me a wide, white smile that shines with gold.

"Don't know, son't care. That was a long time ago." Now why doesn't that ring true? Quinn's right, men like Matt don't forgive and forget. "Let me show you this, Santana Lopez…"

I follow him, still thinking about why. And then I know. Makes me grin, imagining him using his gifts that way: _My great passions? Why, Somalan ale, antique beaded tapestries, and white-maned Old Terran ponies. Yours, too? How astonishing! It's like we're soul mates…_

_Brittany, you're such a bitch._

But I'm smiling as I continue Matt's infinite tour.

They've actually creates a stable society, although they're short on women. If they got an influx from a failing colony somewhere, they'd soon start filling up all the empty places on station. I wonder what kind of future Matt sees for his people, and yes, although we mock him quietly for his ego, he's carved out a small place in the universe that's unquestionably his own, not an easy undertaking. And it doesn't lessen the achievement that his fief is rusted, badly in need of repair, and smells of hydraulic fluid.

"What do you think?"

And I'm able to say truthful, "It's a remarkable accomplishment." But to test my theory regarding his strange shift, I add, "Well, I appreciate your time, but I'd better get back to the ship."

He nods, his dark eyes inscrutable, and that's when I'm sure something's wrong. Because he hasn't asked me what emergency demanded my attention earlier. I feel the weight of his gaze as I make my way to the life, trying not to break into a dead run while he watches me. Ive never been very good at cat and mouse.

As soon as I'm to of sight, I sprint, and by the time I reach the docking bay, I have to press my hand against my side to try and soother the stitch. I don't need to locate the remote, though. The boarding ramp descends as I approach the _Folly._

_Great, someone's been watching for me._

I'd lay odds as to whom, but I don't have the creds to back up my guess, so I simply dash up the loading ramp, make a hard right, and continue into the hub, where I startle the shit out of everyone but Brittany. Her stormy eyes look like I've stolen something from her by creeping out as if she's my dirty little secret, but I can't worry about that now.

"Quinn, did you get the supplies yet?"

She shakes her head. "Still assembling stuff to trade for the base organic to power there kitchen-mate. It's hard knowing what they're going to want. They don't seem to lack for anything, which is interesting, given their isolation."

"Matt said they make trade runs to other outposts in the Outskirts, in addition to hijacking Corp freighters." How that information helps us, I don't know.

"We have enough nutri-paste to make it to Gehenna," Kurt offers. "We can restock there if we must."

_Yeah, that's a bright side._

At least Kurt isn't mad at me anymore. We're back to the lukewarm efficiency he offers me and everyone else. I wish I had a clue what makes him tick, but there's no time for that, either.

"Wherever we go, we need to get out of here. Like ten minutes ago."

Brittany finally speaks. "What's wrong, San?"

_I'm going to sound like I'm crazy._

"I…don't know, " I mutter finally. "Something."

"What makes you think that?" There's no hint of the lover who held my hips and kissed me like she'd never tasted anything better in her life. I'm grateful for her discretion; I truly am. She must've written it off, as I have, as an interlude that should never be repeated. So I guess the awkwardness I feared will never emerge since we're pretending it didn't happen.

"Well. Matt's being too cooperative…it's like he's stalling us."

Brittany raises a brow. "Anything else?"

"Well. He doesn't want to sleep with me anymore."

Quinn can't be expected to pass up an opening like that, and of course, she doesn't. "I'd think you would be used to that by now, Santana."

They think I don't notice when Brittany and Sam trade looks. I know what they're thinking–this is more manifestation of my paranoia. I'm flipping out here, just like i did when I thought Brittany intended to kill me on Marakeq. And it's hard not to believe they're entirely wrong. Maybe I have no intuition anymore, maybe I _am _just crazy.

_Maybe I belong on that cell where they had me on Perlas._

Once, that would've drawn a look from Brittany, maybe a whisper in my head, but there's only silence now, and that's exactly what I want. Right?

"That's pretty thin evidence," Doc says gently. "Perhaps you need some rest. Regardless, we can't leave right this minute. We need some supplies, and we still need to figure out what kind of gift we're going to offer Matt. He's shown remarkable forbearance in permitting us to consult freely with Israel."

That's just it, exactly. Why would he do that? He hates Brittany; I deduced that much before I knew why. If he's being kind to us, then he's fattening us for the kill. But they don't seem to see it, except maybe Quinn, who's lost so much that she probably feels a certain amount of fatal acceptance about such things.

I don't need rest. Mary forfend, it took us three weeks to get here. All I _did _was rest. But I realize there's no way I'm going to convince them, maybe not until it's too late–Jacob emerges from medical, crooning to baby-Z in low crake. Shit, I didn't know he was still on board.

It feels like ever muscle in my body locks with tension, airing for him to announce his intention to rush to Matt and confide my suspicions. Then again, he's not a stupid man, and if he says that, we won't let him leave. My own thoughts make me dizzy, there way they loop, and I almost decide Doc's right. I'm incapable of thinking in a straightforward fashion anymore. There are too many monsters in my head.

Into the silence, Jacob says, "You're right, and you've got to take me with you. I've been trappers for two turns, and I had all but resigned myself to the fact that I would die here. I didn't think anyone would come looking for me."

"You want to go with us?" Brittany asks, sounding cautious.

"Please. Matt will extend docking privileges to anyone who isn't Corp, but leaving…that's the thing. I'm surprised he hasn't filled your ear with talk go eugenesis." Jacob shakes his head and stroke baby-Z through the sling he's designed for carrying him. "Give him time. He's especially please that you brought a couple of new women."

Quinn arches a brow. "Why does that matter, apart from the obvious?"

"New breeding stock," Jacob say softly. "They're doing something dreadful up on the third deck. I've only been there once, Matt doesn't know I know. I stole the access codes…" The scholar shudders. "You'd have to see it, and I'm sure it's worse now."

Our chances of getting off this station without a fight just decreased exponentially.

_**"No. Absolutely not." I shake my head for emphasis.**_ We need to leave _now_, not go sneaking around the third floor. "I'm not going."

Brittany shrugs. "Then I'll go alone."

For this "reconnaissance" mission–although the chances she'll do no more than fact-find are slim–the chooses are an alien who can't fight, a geneticist who won't fight, a scholar who would piss his pants in a fight, and Quinn, who's in charge of acquiring supplies. I'm not sure whether she's planning to trade or steal them now, and I figure that's up to her. If she can swing it, though, I'd prefer she rips Matt off.

And me. The others have decided to pretend she never came up with this mad notion, but I just can't. I follow her to the ramp leading down to the downing bay.

"Why are you so determined to go? It doesn't even make _sense._"

She pauses then, but doesn't meet my eyes, hands clenching into fists. "Call it atonement, but I can't walk away from people who need my help. I can't risk letting the monster loose again, so I have to be better, stronger, more…everything that anyone else. See, I don't get to be a callous bitch because I perfected it. I don't ask you to understand or to risk your life over this, so stay here. It's fine. If I'm not back in two hours, get the fuck off station. The AI can handle it."

Though it's a bad idea on a thousand levels, I want to touch her. Brush the blond hair out of her eyes and lean my forehead against her chin. We're both so fucking broken that I understand our strange attraction, a push-pull magnetism born of similar scars. It's a foregone conclusion that I wind up beading back with Brittany. I can't let her die alone, the unsung hero. I don't know what she thinks she can do up there, but I've got her back regardless.

I can't help but wondering about the broken jumpers Matt admitted to kidnapping. Who else has he taken and why? I feel the pinch go an awakening conscience. Sometimes it's a pain in the ass traveling with a bona fide hero, not that I'd have though to use that sobriquet on Brittany a short time ago. But it applies.

I wonder if she's going to bring up the way I left and brace myself for awkwardness. She's quiet as we make our way back on station. Wish Jacob Israel had been able to tell us more about security, but he spent most of his time in the library, trying to look harmless. So most likely, they're tracking our movements via that door. But there's nothing we can do; it's the only way into Matt's Kingdom.

"He told me enough about his operations that I don't think he intends to let me leave," I volunteer.

"Just figuring that out, San?" Her tone sounds like nothing, thought, no mockery, no teasing, and there's an astonishing coldness in her neutrality. "I told you not to mess with him. I've known the man along time."

My mouth quirks in what can't be rightly called a smile. "I never claimed my brain is my strong point, apart from the J-gene."

I offer the opening, so I expect a standard Brittany slam, but instead she falls silent. We pass through the throne room, eerily empty, even though I know it's the middle of the sleep cycle. I feel like a little kid sneaking to the kitchen after hours to pinch some cookies, but we'll get a lot worse that a warm num if we're caught.

As we reach the library, she says, "Go on. Test the codes Israel gave us and see if you can use them to access complete schematics for the station."

When I do, the archives immediately unlock and the sys-term says, "Welcome back, Jacob Israel."

It takes a moment, but I'm able to find the original layout and design. Without looking at Brittany, I activate PA-245 and invite it to translate the data to it's data banks via scan. The slim beam flickers over the screen as I pull each one up. I also snitch info about DuPont Station's initial weapon systems to give us an idea what might be shooting at us when we make a run for it.

"Compile the separate images into a single three-dimensional map, please."

"Certainly, Santana Lopez."

That tears it. We _have _to take Israel with us, as it's inevitable this terminal will show what records he accessed recently. A man like Matt will place only on interpretation on such research–the correct one–and take steps accordingly.

PA-245 presents me a nice map of the facility, and I study it for a moment. Brittany seems uncharacteristically passive, or maybe she's just distracted. Eventually, she comes over, peering at the clamshell terminal before saying, "The life isn't the only way up there. We should access the maintenance shafts via the ventilation ducts."

I'd like to protest. Crawling about in the dark, dusty ducts isn't something I want to do, but going straight to the third deck in plain sight seems foolhardy, even for me. There's direct access to the maintenance tunnels, of course, but we don't have door codes. We're not authorized repair personnel. If we knew where they lived, Brittany might be able to get the codes as she'd done on Perlas, but that just increases our risk of discovery for no guaranteed gain.

Sighing, I nod and indicate a spot on the display. "We can access it through a panel here."

"Let's go. With luck, Quinn will have supplies on board by the time we finish up."

I follow her, and we retrace our steps, where I half expected to find Matt sprawled on his barbwire throne. But the room's still empty, and Brittany leads the way over to the far wall, behind the table where the rovers were playing Charm, and drops to one knee. She tinkers with the catch, and it snaps open.

"Jumpers first," she tells me, polite as a banker.

Yeah, sleeping with her was definitely a mistake. I missed her giving me shit, even the way we bickered. Now there's just this silence in which everything dies. But I know what's expected of me, so I crawl into the vent, where it is, not surprisingly, dark and dusty. My PA gives off a faint glow, enough for me to read the map and orient myself. Thank Mary, it's not dark enough to trigger a flashback.

"I guess we might as well get going. We have a lot of crawling to do before we reach the maintenance shafts."

That turns out to be an understatement. My knees are sore and my shoulders aching by the time we reach the hatch where we'll emerge in the tunnels. The station's riddled with them like a honeycomb, permitting repairs to be done to otherwise-impossible-to-reach pylons. I wonder how long it's been since anyone ran a safety check, though.

We're making for a ladder that will take us to the third deck maintenance tunnels. From there we'll backtrack to the vents and come out…who knows where? Or what we'll find. This time Brittany takes the lead, scanning side to side like she thinks there might be mines. Can she find or disarm them if there are?

"Yes," she answers without looking at me. "Stay behind me, at least three meters."

"You really think they'd do that? Don't repairmen come in here?"

She spares me a single glance. "I think we're somewhere we're not supposed to be, San. There might be security measures in place that we're supposed to know how to circumvent. And I prefer to be a bit careful. Now get _behind _me."

Bitching beneath my breath, I fall in, six paces likes a good, submissive Somalan wife. Part of me thinks she's enjoying this, and I feel cheated. I composed a speech mentally, dammit. I was going to tell her it was fantastic, but it couldn't be repeated. Brittany couldn't make it clearer that she doesn't want to talk about it, though. Shit, maybe if I brought it up, she'd read me my own speech. I scowl at her back, disgruntled.

Brittany kneels ten, running her fingertips over the welded metal seam between wall and floor, then higher. A red light higher up the wall flares in the gloom, then winks out. I tense, waiting for something worse, but Brittany rises and wipes her hands on her thighs.

"A series of pressure plates all the way down," she says. "If they're triggered without someone inputting the disarming sequence…" Well, she doesn't really need to articulate it. "Interesting thing is, I don't think Matt installed them. This technology is older than that, more integral to the station."

I can't imagine how long it took to build this place; it's a relic, older than any other outpost in the Outskirts. But I'm not sure what this information means. "This was a Corp station, wasn't it? Before they decommed it and removed the last personal when the star routes changed."

Brittany nods, and I think I see the flicker of a smile, although it's pretty dim. "So what does that mean, San?"

"Oh no." I shake my head. "You're not going to get me to entertain you with another conspiracy rant. Don't think I didn't see how you and Doc looked at each other over my head on the _Folly._ Fragging patronizing, the lot of you, and I turned out to be right, even if I sounded crazy! you owe me and apology."

"Maybe," she says quietly. "But you're not getting it right at this moment. Let's go play hero."

"Can't we play master and slave girl instead?" It's a joke, but I flinch as the words come out. Mary, do I have a big mouth.

I can feel the heat of her eyes. "I don't think so. Come on."

As I start up the ladder behind her, I don't think I've ever felt like such an asshole.

_**I know something's wrong the minute we crawl out of **_ the vent.

The rest of the station looks like a pawnshop off Gehenna's pusher promenade, but the _third _deck, which everyone but Israel has been so careful to tell us isn't in use, well, it's like the disparity between the outside of the _Folly_ and the gleaming well-kept interior. This level shines. Everything looks brand-new; it's a secure lab, and we've emerged in the middle of a hallway.

It's almost too bright after the gloom in the ducts. I've probably got something weird growing in my lungs now from breathing that air, some parasite that will eventually kill me, but what the hell, it was for a good cause, right? I wish I believed that.

Really, I'm testing Brittany with these thoughts now and then. Waiting for her sarcasm, waiting for her to bitch at me and tell me I'm depressing. Something. _Anything._ But either she's not listening, or I just don't have the power to provoke her anymore. Why the hell does that _bother _me?

"Because you're fragging nuts, San." She gives me a ghost of a smile as she say it. "I thought you wanted me to stay out your head."

"Since when does what I want matter? If the universe gave a shit about _that, _I'd be sitting in a café on Venice Minor, sucking on some choclaste nosh and admiring the working boys."

I take a minute to imagine that. _Mmm._ Given the choice, I prefer the slim, pretty ones, golden skinned, without a lot of body hair.

"You're truly an enlighten soul, aren't you?" Brittany shakes her head, setting off toward a set of double doors at the end of the hall. The red lights that encircle it serve as an effective warning as far as I'm concerned, but Brittany won't be deterred. "Come on."

Neither of us doubts Very Bad Things lie beyond this door, but there's a meter of solid titanium between us and…whatever. Mind, I'd be happy to turn around right now, but I know Brittany. We're not leaving until she's seen this thing through.

"Whenever I follow you, we wind up in trouble," I point out.

"How is that different from what happens when you lead?"

I sigh. "All right, genius, how do we get in? There are no guards for you to–"

"Let me handle that." She withdraws a slim rectangle from her pocket, and I recognize it as a codebreaker, definitely black-market ware.

Slender silver filaments snake out from the device, gliding beneath the edges of the keypad to connect. I expect more animation, but it goes to work silently, and as it runs through numeric possibilities, the lights snap off around the door one by one. When all ten bulbs go dim, the door swishes open, leaving us looking into yet another hallway. I don't bother checking my PA; the map of the third deck is outdated, more than the other levels. According to those records, we're standing in an infirmary.

"This is really dumb," I mutter, and Brittany sets off.

Presently we come to another security door, where she repeats the procedure. "I hope there aren't any more of these. This thing only has one charge left."

That much I knew. Like most black-market ware, codebreakers are crafted with a finite number of uses, then they break down to base chemicals, leaving no hint as to their purpose. Maybe a really good chemist. analyzing the residue, would be able to posit a guess, but there's still no _proof_, and for most criminals, that's the important thing. For obvious reasons, possession of them is outlawed on every Corp world, and as far as I know, they can only be purchased on Gehenna.

We hurry onward, trying to be quiet, although skulking in a bight corridor with no cover looks even sillier than it sounds. As we pause at the next–and hopefully last–set of doors, I say, "One of these days you're going to stop surprising me."

She gives me a saturnine smile. "And when that day comes, Santana, I'll miss you."

_Bitch._ But I don't mean it. VEry few people can keep up with me verbally, and I wouldn't trade Brittany for someone nice. Well, I don't mean that like it sounds. Brittany is a good woman, just not a nice one. Does that even make sense?

While I'm pondering, she gets to work, and the door whispers open. Even before I step around the corner to see, my skin prickles with wrongness. Yes, this is the place Israel warned us about, where they're doing dreadful things. I step into the room without waiting for Brittany, scarcely able to take it in.

At first glance it looks like a med ward or possibly a morgue, so many rows of bodies, lying pale and quiet. The only sound besides our breathing comes from the low hum of the machines keeping them alive. And that's not the worst part.

"Mother Mary," Brittany breathes, coming to stand beside me. "They're–

"Helping populate the station," a voice says from behind us. "We're growing only girl children right now. There are so many men waiting."

_Shit. We've been had._

I turn to find Israel leveling a disruptor on s. Either one of us makes a sudden move, our molecules are going to find themselves painfully rearranged. And that's really not good for breathing and circulation.

"Jacob," I drawl. "What an unexpected pleasure. Decided you don't want a ride off station anymore?"

_As if he ever did._ The last piece of the puzzle falls into place. Matt doesn't possess the scientific expertise to execute this plan by himself. My stomach roils, seeing how they're using there poor women as nothing but wombs. I'm afraid to speculate just how insemination takes place.

"Yes, I was rather proud of that performance. I had to think fast. Bt why would I? I can't study in the field anymore…my lungs were damaged on Marakeq, and I have a sweet setup here. Matt trusts me to take care of business, I'm his right-hand man."

"Where did you find all hess women?" Brittany asks. Her hands furl into fists at her sides, and it doesn't take a specialist to read her body language.

"Med wards mostly, sometimes psych. You'd be surprised how many throwaways there are, forgotten by friends and family." Israel shakes his head in what appears to be sincere regret, and I have to conclude he's just about the craziest bastard I ever met. He thinks it's too bad these poor women wound up like this but doesn't see anything wrong with _this?_ "Don't worry," he adds, seeing to misread my look. "We test for genetic anomalies, and I'm keeping careful record so we don't wind up inbreeding."

"Thank Mary for that," I mumble, but Israel is immune to sarcasm. "You're behind the biomechanics work on Matt's jumpers, too, aren't you?"

He smiles, like we're having a friendly conversation, and it it weren't for the weapon in his hands, I might even believe it. "Yes, they're kept in a separate area, as it's a different project. Our goal is complete self-sufficiency, a settlement free of Corp influence, free from artificial cred-based commerce."

"What happens if one of these women wakes up?" Brittany edges closer to the scientist by millimeters.

"Oh, they never do," Israel answers, and I can picture him smiling as he slides the spike behind their eyes, crooning, _This is for the best._ "And no one ever leaves Matt-Rutherford's Kingdom. Afraid there's no place for you here, Brittany. Matt simply doesn't like you. We're keeping the women. Santana, after reviewing your Corp record, I don't trust you to be docile on your own, and you appear resistant to mental conditioning. The blonde's a mechanic, yes? We can use her expertise. The other two from your crew can join the rovers. I'm sure they'll all adapt… and if necessary, I can assist with that."

_Shit, why didm' I see it sooner? He's just like the Unit Psych, Newel._

After a brief pause, as if thinking things over, Brittany asks, low, "Will you take care of baby-Z for me, at least?"

_No. Oh no. _ I find myself begging silently, _Don't you dare leave me, Brittany. Don't you dare. _But there's nothing but my own thoughts, nothing to indicate she heard me.

"Of course," Israel says kindly. " I have him right here in fact." With his free hand he opens up his shirt and Z pokes his head out the top.

"Grrr-upp." For some reason, Z only chats if he can see someone to talk to. With his head covered up, he seems to assume no one is around.

_Fantastic. _ Now we're crippled because we need to be careful with the baby. Just when I don't think the situation can get any worse, Brittany dives for the scientist's legs. Israel's faster than I'd have guessed, though, and he fires–blinding flash, so I hit the deck instinctively.

When my pupils adapt, I see Brittany crumpled at Israel's feet.


	12. Chapter 12

_**GRIMSPACE**_

A/N: Early update, since I'm up late watching softball. warning: Character death. hope you didn't get attached to anyone :D

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or Any of the Sirantha Jax series by Ann Aguirre that this is based on.

Her next Jump, may just be her last.

_**CHAPTER 12**_

_**I've only got one shot at this. **_

As Israel levels the disruptor on me, a smug smile building, he says,"You want to join your lover, Santana? Just how deep does that devotion go?"

"Frag you. Where's Matt? Does he know you're doing this?"

His looks shifts from self-satisfied to irritated. "Like I told you, he trusts me to take care of business."

"I bet he's going to be pissed that you robbed him the opportunity to take Brittany out one-on-one. How's he supposed to command respect from the rovers if he lets a weakling like you do his dirty work?"

I'm flat on the floor, gazing up at him. If looks could kill, he'd be a sizzling pile of meat, but sadly, he just stands there. I can't look at Brittany again; her left arm's a mangled, bloody mass of displaced molecules. And she's so still. Mary help me, I truly am poison. Part of me wonders whether Simon's still alive, and if so, how he's escaped the violent death that comes to all who sleep with me.

"I'm not a weakling," he responds tightly.

Good, I'm making him mad. That increases the probability he'll get careless. I'm neither brave nor heroic, but I'm not dying here. If I can get that disruptor out of his hands, I'll kick his ass, but I can't underestimate him. He may be slight, but he's fast, or he wouldn't have been able to drop Brittany. And he's going to die for that, swear to Mary.

As I'm trying to decide on the best strategy , I see movement, a shadow thrown by someone coming down the hall. Israel notices my shift of focus, but he thinks he's too smart to fall for that. "Oh, there's someone behind me, is that it?"

"Actually there is," Kurt says, stepping into view.

The scientist spins, and I launch myself at his ankles and yank. He tumbles back, hits hard, and the disruptor goes flying. I don't know what the hell Kurt is doing here, but both Israel and I scramble for the weapon. Since he's about a meter behind me, he gets a kick across the chin as I roll and come up with it in both hands.

"Let's not be hasty," Israel says, placating. He tries to smile, and his teeth show smears of blood.

But all I can see is Brittany lying behind him. I fire in reply, a chest shot, and then I stand for a moment just listening to him scream. His heart pulses sickly trying to pump for a few beats before it bursts, splattering blood all over the white lab floor. Kurt looks like he's going to heave.

"You–"

"Damn right," I snap. "It's us or them. Remind me to ask you later what you're doing here. For now, we've got to het the frag out."

"What about them?" He nods toward the pale, gravid row of women, bound to machines that do their living for them. "What about they're young? What will life be like, born to serve raiders?"

"I don't know, but I draw the line at killing unborn babies. We can't save the world.," I tell hime wearily. "All we can do is save ourselves. Now let's go."

As we start for the door, Brittany groans.

"She snit dead." Kurt draws up short. "Help me, Santana. We can't leave her."

I pause, weighing our options. When I hesitate too long, Kurt adds, "Santana!" like I've let him down somehow.

"Shit. Okay. _Okay._ I've get her left side."

My whole body cringes as the malformed meat that used to be Brittany's arm drops round my shoulder. She's so heavy. Between Kurt and me, I don't know how the hell we can manage this. Not with all those raiders gunning for us.

But we have to try.

"I came up the lift," Kurt says. "Best we go back that way. I don't think we can mange all the crawling."

That's quite an understatement. This way, we increase our risk of discovery, but it can't be helped. Kurt seems to know when the patrols pass, so we pause around corners and wait, clamping a hand over Brittany's mouth when she moans. Give us away.

My heart sounds like a tribal drum in my ears as we finally hit the lift and–

"Wait, how the hell did you get the codes?"

"I told the guard that Israel wanted me for a special procedure," He answers quietly. "I knew something was wrong when he left. If he truly wanted to accompany us, he'd should've stayed aboard, fingers crossed for your quick return."

"Shit, that's clever," I say admiringly, as we step out onto the first deck. Now we just need to get to the docking bay. But here's the guard who let Kurt go up, likely thinking that he'd never come down again.

No hesitation– I fire, another chest shot, but I'm not fast enough to keep him from sounding the alarm before he starts screaming. More blood sprays out, a crimson fan over the guard station. I feel Kurt looking at me with abject horror, but we need to keep moving. As the rovers respond to the alert, we're going to face more and more security. Time's the enemy now, along with two hundred raiders who love nothing better than a fight.

Just need to clear the corridors, the throne room, and the last stretch to the hangar. _Come on, Brittany, we nee you awake._ As we take off at gimp speed, my shoulders burn beneath her weight, so I give her a little shake, hoping pain may do the trick.

"Shit," Brittany growls, finally stumbling with some violation. She takes a little go her weight of us. "Where's baby-Z?"

_Mary forgive me. I think I may have killed him._ Inexplicably that hurts word than anything that's happened so far. I feel the to burn behind my eyes. _Forget Israel, I'm the monster. _But I wasn't thinking of anything but seeing him die.

"No time for that, stay with us. We're almost to the _Folly._ Just a little farther."

We're stumbling now, even with Brittany half-conscious. Past the throne room, we can do this. We're almost there. But neither I nor Kurt is particularly strong. Kurt is smart, and I'm fast, but that's not helping us now. What I wouldn't give for Doc's burly back. He could probably heft Brittany over his shoulder and go at a dead run. I hear booted feet behind us, and the Klaxons blaring remind me of Perlas Station.

_Of course they do, this is a former Corp installation._

And they're going into lockdown.

_No. Oh no._

I start to run, seeing the doors in the room that used to be the docking authority closing slowly. We need more speed, and it's all I do not to shake free of them, sprint for all I'm worth. They're dragging me down, and right now I don't care whether they live or die. I'm not a fragging hero…I didn't ask for this, dammit, I shouldn't have to choose.

"Come on, you bastards." I'm sobbing as I try to pull Brittany along, and we make it, bent double, beneath the first set of doors.

But I don't see how we can make the second set across the room. Still, I'm not giving up. I dig my fingers into her mangled forearm and rouse a scream of race, of pain, but it does' have the desired result. Instead of goading her to speed, her knees buckle, and we all go down just before the second door.

I slither beneath on my belly; there's less than a meter odf space now. In that moment I'm sure I'm the only one who's going to make it back to the _Folly_, but then I see Kurt shoving Brittany toward me. There's a terrible acceptance in his eyes as I reach for Brittany and haul her forward.

"Thank you," Kurt whispers, as Brittany's boot clears the gap. "You gave me the power to choose."

The door clangs shut.

I feel tears streaming down my face, hot as blood. Part of me wants to stand here screaming, shoot the door with my disruptor, but I don't know what it does to metal, if anything, and I can't bring myself to waste the chance he's bought us. I refuse to listen to hime die.

"Wake up!" I slap Brittany as hard as I can, and she groans, trying to push upright. The bitch seems surprised when her left arm won't hold her weight. "Get you ass up. I am _not_ leaving you, not after all this. Come on."

She doesn't even seem to know who the hell I am, but I get her on her feet. Just this last corridor now, and I don't know how the hell we're going to get through the docking bay doors. I doubt they'll open for us anymore, but–

There's a smoking hole where the door used to be, Quinn standing there with a smile. "You two don't sight–oh shit, is Brittany…"She trails off, because obviously she's _not_, and the turrets in the docking bay are coming alive. " Where's Kurt?"

I just shake my head, and she gets under her right side. "Head down now, it's going to be a shitty run."

_**Brittany is never going to be able to fly.**_

Doc's sedated her since the shock might kill her, and he's tending to the arm as best he can, but we need a real medical facility for proper treatment. He'll wrap it, get her started on a full series of preventatives, and that's about all we can do. Sam will need to keep an eye on her, though, so that just elves Quinn and me.

"All right," she says grimly. "One of us needs to man the guns, the other needs to get us out of here. I'm usually in the pit, you ever pilot?"

"Hell no. But I've never been on guns before, either, so get back there. Cripple every ship in this docking bay, then blow the doors wide open. These aren't the only ships on station, but maybe it'll slow them down some."

"Yes, boss." She sprints for the gun pit, and the funny thing is, she didn't sound mocking when she said it.

I get my ass to the cockpit, and as I strap into the pilot's chair, I can't help thinking how wrong it feels. I've never sat over here on the left side, but I think I remember enough of that last time with Brittany. Maybe I can figure this out.

I tap a series of panels from memory and feel vaguely surprised as the _Folly _powers up. It's not that I know what I'm doing, quite the contrary. I'm just seeing in my mind's eye how Brittany does this. So far so good, the panels and switches seem oddly familiar. I remember how I thought, _ I could almost fly this ship myself, _during our last jump. I need to stop doing that, because such mental boasts have an uncomfortable way of coming back to bite me in the ass.

_This must be the vertical movement…so this one is horizontal. _

As I skate my fingers across the second bar, the vessel jerks hard and slings sideways, careening us into the far wall. _Shit, this thing is sensitive. _ I try to turn it, and it spins back, and soon we're just spinning wildly in the hangar, slamming into the ships Quinn is supposed to be shooting. The _Folly_ takes damage as we're whirling; I hear the steady barrage of hits along the hull.

"Hold his thing steady, dammit. I got no shot," she growls at me over the comm.

So I stop touching the controls for a minute, and I hear the roar of our turrets firing on the docked ships. Muted explosions tell me she's getting the job done. Now I just need to turn so we can get out of here.

We spin three times before I finally stead the _Folly_ long enough for Quinn to blow the bay doors, then we're out, although it's not in a graceful swoop like Brittany executes. Instead, I bang around the exit, wincing at the painful sound of metal scraping along metal, but we finally depart Matt-Rutherford's Kingdom. Finally.

_With incalculable losses._

The comm crackles, and Quinn's voice comes across with a mocking lilt: "Lopez, as a pilot, you're a great jumper."

"Yeah, yeah." I flick the switch on her. "Computer, autopilot on, set course for Gehenna, maximum cruising speed."

Acknowledged," the computer tells me cheerfully. "At our current speed, we will make port in approximately thirty-six standard hours."

"Alert me if there's any sign of pursuit or other problems," I say tiredly, unbuckling from the pilot's chair.

"Acknowledged."

I hope I never have to do this again. Brittany usually stays up here awhile to monitor our course, but I need to check on how she's doing, talk to Doc, then get this blood off me. Rolling my shoulder, I head for medical. Not until this moment did I realize just how sore I am, but I feel like I've been beaten.

When I peek around the door frame, I see that Doc has sprayed Brittany's arm in some liquid skin to keep put bacteria. I've never seen anyone shot by a disruptor before. THey never perfected molecular transportation, but naturally, the Corp capitalized on the failed prototypes, turning them into a weapon that turns flesh inside out. Whoever invented that weapon was a sick son of a bitch.

Of course, I've killed with it twice, so what does that make me?

"How's she doing?"

Doc looks up from the life-sign readings with a creased brow. "She's strong, sound constitution, so that'll help. The fact that you got her back alive is pretty impressive."

"It was Kurt, not me. He deserves all the credit." For a moment I think I might break down, tears simmering in my eyes. Sometimes you find your heroes in the unlikeliest places. _Wish I'd know him better. Wish–_

_So many things._

Doc regards me as if her knows there's something I'm not saying. "Brittany is in a lot of pain, though. Kindest thing we can do is keep her sedated until we reach Gehenna. I have some contacts at a clinic near the starport. they'll ell us out without asking any inconvenient questions."

That hurts, too. If I'd done something differently…After a moment, I lock everything down, push it back into the compartment where wounded Santana lives. I'm the pragmatic Santana. "You can keep her nourished and hydrated?"

Sam sikhs. "That's about all I can do with a wound like this, but yes, I can. What happened, Santana?"

I turn to see Quinn standing in the doorway, waiting to hear the answer. Her eyes as she gazes down at Brittany, so pale and still, almost like she's already dead, well it's the looks of someone who thought she'd lost everything, only to find more could still be taken from her. And I feel like I'm the harbinger of it all, although I didn't even want to go up to the lab. That was all Brittany. But it doesn't seem to matter anymore. I was there, wasn't I? And everything I touch goes bad–just like that dead Gunnar said.

Taking a deep breath, I tell them. I don't spare a single detail, and I certainly don't paint myself in a better light. It doesn't matter if they hate me, couldn't be worse than how I hate myself.

But then Quinn says softly, "It wasn't your fault, Santana," I almost fall down.

In fact, I have to sit down on one of the stools up against the wall, regarding her with incredulity. "You can't stand me. How can you say that?"

She shrugs. "Yes, you're a bitch for even _thinking_ about leaving Brittany behind, but you didn't, did you? It's not your fault she got shot. And it's not your fault that Israel was a crazy fuck. And it's not your fault that Brittany wanted to go see if anyone up there needed help. That's just…Brittany. And it _definitely _wasn't your fault that Kurt didn't make it. He made a choice, Santana. And you gave him that power. I think when it came down to it, he wanted to die a free man, he wanted it to mean something."

"You spoke to him about my _shinai_-solution, didn't you?"

She nods. "It wouldn't have worked. He was touched you cared enough to put much thought into it, though. And when he decided to go after you two, Doc and I respected his choice."

_Even though we knew something could go wrong. _Though I hear the unspoken words, they don't help much.

"She's right, you know." Sam turns from his examination of Brittany's vital signs long enough to give me a solemn nod.

"And nobody who wasn't there can say for sure whether they'd have been thinking about what was under Israel's shirt," Quinn continues, like she's determined to make me feel better. "If it was me, seeing my friend on the floor, I'd want the blood of the bastard who killed her, too."

"It is a tragedy that we lost Kurt and baby-Z," Doc adds. "Fortunately, I have ten good DNA samples, so it's not a complete loss as far as the project is concerned. I took them when I was sure he was strong enough to bear it, shortly before we reach MAtt-Rutherford's Kingdom."

_The project._

Sometimes I think Doc's as crazy as Jacob Israel. Maybe all scientists are. They don't care who has to die for them to test a theory. They lose sight of the important things; they spend so much time looking at cells that they forget those units are the building blocks of sentient beings who have thoughts and hopes, dreams and feelings.

Examining the cost objectively, I'm not sure I believe in this project anymore. With the bodies piling up in our wake–Jor, Mair, so many Gunnars, Kurt, baby–Z–I don't think I can justify continuing this course. I can't imagine that it's worth it.

So what if the Corp continues to dominate jump-travel, so what if they own all interstellar commerce and travel? they always have–_status quo._

But before I can tell them I'm out, I don't want to do this anymore, the computer advises us, "I have detected two ships on intersect course, Santana Lopez. Since they have powered up their weapon systems, I believe their intentions may be hostile."

_And maybe I'm bad juju, dark luck._

_**Quinn scrambles for the gun pit.**_

I figure if Brittany were awake, she'd be in the cockpit, so that's where I head, even though I know perfectly well we're better off on autopilot. At least the computer will continue to move us in the direction of Gehenna. Based on my performance getting us off station, the same cannot be said of me.

Regardless, as a good proxy, I take my place in the pilot's chair, even though I've got no clue what I'm supposed to do. I peer at various screens and panels until I get visual on the two ships. At this distance I can't tell where they hail from, but I'm willing to bet they've been sent from the kingdom formerly known as DuPont Station.

"Can you take evasive cation?" I ask the computer.

"The autopilot is programmed with the standard S-68 dodge and 410 spiral. Please state your preference."

_Shit, I have no damn idea._

I tap the comm, hoping she won't laugh at me. "Quinn, what's the difference between the S-68 dodge and a 410 spiral?"

"Huh?"

I get the feeling that encapsulates her knowledge on the subject. "Never mind. All weapons online?"

"Affirmative," she comes back. "We're going to be in range soon. Get the shields up if you haven't already."

_Double shit._

"Computer, enable S-68 dodge with autocorrection based on trajectory of incoming enemy fire," I say, hoping that's possible.

Hoping it makes sense and the computer won't argue with me or call me an idiot. I certainly feel like one.

"Acknowledged. At current cruising speed, the pursuing vessels will overtake us in approximately five minutes."

"Shields online, extra power to aft section." That's where DOc and Brittany are, and I don't want a hull breach there.

The computer objects," Insufficient energy, Santana Lopez."

"Reroute from secondary systems. I want stronger shields aft," I insist.

Maybe that's not the right thing to do, but I'm not trained for this. I'm not a pilot and certainly not one seasoned in space combat. Apart from the time I've been on the _Folly_, I've _never_ had ship guns fire at me. I was Corp, for frag's sake–people rolled out the red carpet for Kai and me. How am I supposed to know this shit?

And the computer starts beeping and humming, hopefully doing as I ask. Don't know what I'll do if it doesn't because I'm not Brittany. I can't program this by hand. I just hope my best is good enough up here.

After a moment, it announces, "All shields online, aft operating at one hundred thirty-five percent. Is that satisfactory?"

"We'll see."

That's really all I can do. So I cross my fingers and wait.

I feel the ship shudder as we take the first hit, but the shields seem to hold. And then the _Folly _begins what could only be standard dodge pattern S-68. Maybe the other pilots aren't academy trained so they won't recognize it. It's oddly silent, except for the odd jolt where they score a hit.

The comm crackles; "What the hell are you doing up there, Santana? We're slinging around like an old woman dancing drunk."

"It's called evasive action," I grumble. "Just shut up and shoot."

"I will if I can keep from puking."

But I see on-screen that she's got one of them. I hear nothing, but the ship crumbles into nothingness. It should be more dramatic, perhaps, but these are sleek, fast, one-man ships. Nothing else would've caught us, and they don't quite have the durability they need to take us on. Maybe they thought two-on-one odds would do it, but they didn't take a close look at the way the _Folly _is outfitted, heavy shields, hard-core guns.

And then I feel another hard lurch, just before something explodes somewhere starboard. "Imminent engine failure," the computer tells me helpfully. "Immediate maintenance required. Danger. Primary systems compromised. Immediate–"

I launch myself out of the pilot's chair. _Shit._ This pilot's smarter; he's not attempting to take us out by himself, just trying to cripple us. Leave us dead in space, then tow us wherever they want us.

There's no way I can repair those engines so let's hop I can figure out the guns. I don't know how to transfer controls to the cockpit, so I sprint for the gun pit, where Quinn's already unbuckling. "Get you ass in there and take him out," she tells me, running for the engine room.

The ship shudders again, and now the whole area is lit with flashing red light, as if the blaring noise wasn't enough to alert us to the fact we're in trouble. I look at the panel in panic, trying to figure it out–

_Think I get it._

Inside the pit, I seem to spin as I tap the scope, and damn, Quinn's right, this drunken lurch called dodge S-68 that we're running makes it hard as hell to target. But I mash the button, launching a volley toward the lighter ship. It swoops around us with a grace I can't help but envy with the autopilot driving and me on guns. If we make it out of this alive, it'll be a miracle.

I learn to spin the scope counter to our evasive maneuverings, and I can't help but shout when I hit the other ship. Just a glancing shot, didn't do any real damage, but it means I'm getting the hang of this. Maybe I can take him out before he destroys our engines completely.

Two hands on the controls, spin and target, then let it go. _Yes!_ I can see he's crippled now, having trouble. There's a distinct dip when he turn port side, so I focus there, continuing to fire. I'm almost surprised when the other vessel seems to crumple, then there's a silent array of sparks. Now he's nothing but salvage.

I'm surprised to find I'm covered in a fine layer of swear as I pull myself out of the gun pit. I already hurt from lugging Brittany, and now every muscle throbs as if I've taken these guys on in actual physical combat. No wonder Quinn's so strong; she fragging has to be. I stagger out to the hub and don't see anyone. Eventually, I locate Doc in the cockpit, as he took over giving the computer orders when I hit the turrets. We find Quinn in the engine took, using mechanic's tools and voodoo magic to keep us moving.

"How bad is it?" I ask, shoving the frizzy hair out of my eyes.

"Bad enough. This is just a workaround; we're not even running on main engines, and with what I had to do, the kitchen-mate isn't going to work, among other things. Enjoy your paste until we get to Gehenna."

_If we get to Gehenna._

I'm so fragging tired, I feel like I could sleep for a week. One thing's for sure, though, I need to learn some shit. Because this boast of not knowing anything but grimspace isn't a good thing, and it just may get me killed, sooner rather than later. It's not enough to be a good navigator; I'm not a Corp celebrity anymore. I live in the real world now, like it or not, and that means expanding my repertoire.

I need to learn to pilot in case this happens again. I need to learn guns. I need to learn emergency maintenance. I need to leanr–

_Shit. I'm too tired to finish the list. _But it's really long. Maybe it's to my credit that I've realized as much.

"Is Brittany all right?" I roll my shoulders. _Think I pulled something._

Doc nods. "I strapped her down before I went to the cockpit, but I should probably go check on her. I'll let you know if there's any change."

The old Santana would've taken his word for that, but instead I follow him to medical because I want to see with my own eyes. Brittany has taken on greater significance than I can parse at the moment. She's like the last hope I have, the last chance to prove I'm not a living, breathing curse.

She's quiet and still, so fragging pale. It hurts to see her like this, and for a moment my eyes sting because I can't make myself believe she'll ever wake up. I'm glad I don't have to see the mangled meat of her left arm. Doc's got that wrapped, and a steady burst of painkillers keeping Brittany quiet. Her vitals do look good, though, from what I know of such things.

I forget Sam's standing there, as I step closer to the table. It seems wrong to leave her strapped, so I start unbuckling her. When I'm done, I adjust the thin synth blanket, tucking it neatly around her waist. What I wouldn't give to have her wake up and tell me what a waste of space I am, chew me out over everything that's gone wrong.

But she's so fragging far away– I can't feel her anymore. Can't help but press my palm to her cheek, feel the too-cool skin, and trace the line of her cheekbone. I've lost so many people. Some I left on purpose and never looked back. Some were taken from me, and I never said good-bye.

Brittany…She was supposed to be different, irascible but indestructible. As it turns out, she's flesh and blood like any otter human. I drop my hand, nod at Doc, and leave Med Bay without speaking. I'm so tired, all the way down to the bone. The old Santana would've headed to quarters to shower and crash. She would've figured she'd done enough.

So I head for the engine room to being my crash course in starship repair.


	13. Chapter 13

_**GRIMSPACE**_

A/N: Sorry it's short, I've been sick, but I'll make up for it on the next update.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or Any of the Sirantha Jax series by Ann Aguirre that this is based on.

Her next Jump, may just be her last.

_**CHAPTER 13**_

_**We limp into port at Gehenna, not quite trailing smoke,**_ but it's close.

Quinn must've used every trick in the book to keep the _Folly _running. We all know we can't afford another battle or another delay. It may have already been too long for Brittany. I won't speak that fear aloud, though. I put my faith in primitive gods right now, where you can keep the bad magic at bay by refusing to acknowledge it.

They say you never forget your first glimpse of Gehenna. Over the tall buildings the sky swirls with orange and red, true titian, a feature of the unique atmosphere. Of course the same air would kill human beings; hence they built the entire city inside a dome. Eternal sunset, that's why the place is so wild. You know that feeling you get, just before full dark? Sundown makes you feel like the world burgeons with possibility, and that's Gehenna for you.

Like any other romantic notion, it's base on bullshit, of course. Gehenna isn't the land of eternal sunset and infinite potential. The gas in the atmosphere just makes it impossible to see the sun.

The whole place is a rich man's experiment, really. If Venice Minor is famed for luxury and natural beauty, then Gehenna is pure man-made vice. At the open markets near the spaceport, you can buy anything from exotic weapons to designer drugs to trained slaves. Twinkling marquee advertisements beg for our money and our time. This club boasts "the most beautiful girls in the galaxy" and that one promises "the biggest jackpot ever, you'll break the bank," the one where a pair of enormous luminous dice seem to roll themselves, again and again. It's almost hypnotic.

I'm positive my landing skills aren;t up to this challenge. Getting into the port authority requires traversing a complex series of locks; it's measure that ensures the air inside the dome's not compromised. So when the docking agent contacts us, asking for our itinerary, I answer, "Our pilot is incapacitated, and we're coming in on auto. Can you transmit vectors?"

She sounds irritated that I've disrupted procedure. "_Svetlana's Folly,_ is this trip business or pleasure?"

I don't know which this qualifies as, so I reply, " I repeat, our pilot is injured and in need of medical attention. This is an _unscheduled _stop."

That seems to appease her. "I'm sorry to hear that. We can bring you in safely if you accept the override."

Oh Mary, I get a cold chill, just thinking of turning control of the _Folly_ over to strangers. For a moment I flash on Matins IV, but then I give myself a mental shake. This isn't a Corp outpost. It's a private playground, a smuggler's paradise. That's why it was built in the Outskirts, and as far as I know, nobody here is trying to kill us.

_Give them time._

So I tap the panel to accept the override, and they bring us through the landing sequence, smooth as s-silk. There's no way I could have managed al these turns, the precise stops and starts while we proceed through the locks to the hangar. Maybe our computer could've handled it; I don't know. I'm glad we don't have to find out.

As we come down the boarding ramp, an official waits for us. "You said you have injured on board?" She's also outfitted in full hazard gear. " I'm afraid I need to check her to ensure you aren't carrying a contagious sickness."

"Go right ahead," Doc says, stepping back from the sled.

The dock mistress, or whatever the hell she is, runs a scan on Brittany, head to toe, then nods, seeming satisfied. She pulls off her helmet, and I'm surprised to find she's quite young. "Note to log, merely an injury to an extremity, nothing infectious. Do you need transport?"

"That would be perfect if you can arrange it," I say.

I've only been here once before. Kai and I rented a sporty little two-seater, but that;s not going to get the job done. And in fact, she handled the details, so I wouldn't even know where to start.

"I'll see to it," the official says. "I'll provided documentation for those traveling to the clinic with the patient. Here." She hands us an orange card. "But I do need someone to stay and fill out forms regarding your stay and, of course, pay the docking fee."

I'm about to volunteer when Quinn says, " I'll do it." At my look, she shrugs. "I hate hospitals. No offense, Doc." But I can read the look she gives our helpful docking agent. "Afterward, I'll hit the market and see about parts for real repairs."

"Let's go then." Sam tows the emergency sled behind him easily, which is impressive, considering the thrusters that lift it don't do anything for propulsion.

As promised, we find a skywagon with an orange cross on the side waiting for us in front of the docking authority, and it's large enough to slide the sled in back. Doc gets in front with the driver, giving directions, and climb up with Brittany. With a smooth swoop, we're off. Gehenna whirls around me, an impossibly bright collage of color.

I rest my hand on Brittany's chest, feeling the slow, steady thump of her heart. The last two days I've found it impossible to sleep, and I'm somewhere past exhausted. Maybe I doze off sitting beside her, because it feels to me like we just got moving, then we stop. Someone opens the rear doors.

I recognize Doc hauling the sled, so I hop down. Guess he's already paid the driver, so we make our way into the clinic, a posh-looking place done in ultra chrome and diamante with a marquee that proclaims, "We build a better you" and a second sign that says "Where the stars come when they fall." I'm not sure what that means, but I follow Doc, hoping he knows where he's going.

"Sam Evans!" calls an extremely affable voice. It turns out to be attached to a slim silver-haired man around Doc's age. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I'd have booked the twins and a suite at the Capital."

"Spontaneous stop," Doc answers. "I've got a friend here in desperate need of your expertise, Ordo. Do you have and op-room free?"

"Yes, yes, of course. And if I didn't, I'd put someone out for you."

The two men walk away, leaving me standing in the foyer with the potted plants and impressive view through the skylight. I drop down into a padded orange chair. Overhead I can see an ad satellite orbiting the salmon sky, but I can't make out it's slogan. Somehow it seem important, like it's a special message just for me, so I continue to gaze straight up, waiting for the moment when it turns so I can read it.

_Working girls prefer Sapphire._

I don't know what it means, either, but over the next several hours, it works on me. The words must be a message writer in code, and if I can just unravel their hidden significance, then Brittany will be all right. But I can't work it out, and as I feel myself drifting off, I realize I've let her down.

Don't know how long I was out, but Doc wakes me with a gentle hand on my shoulder. "She's awake, San. You want to see her?"

"Yeah, please." I yawn as I push myself to my feet, scouring the sleep from my eyes with my knuckles. "Did you…that is–"

"We couldn't save the arm," he says gravely. "I had to choose between and organic and prosthetic replacement."

"She wouldn't want a–"

"I know. It's going to take some time for her to build strength in the new arm, and it looks a bit different. But with physical therapy and exercise, she could eventually return to normal. Come then, this way."

He leads me through a warren of hallways and opens the door to a recovery room. With luxurious draperies, mosaic tile floor, and commodious bed with multiple settings, this space looks every bit as lush as the rest of the clinic; Doc wasn't kidding when he said he had connections here.

Brittany sits propped up, her shoulder wrapped decorously in liquid skin. The new arm looks strange and pale, not to mention slim, almost delicate in comparison with her right. Every now and then she flexes the fingers of her left hand, probably testing to be sure they really work. I can't blame her.

"Brittany," I say softly, and she looks up as if she hadn't heard us enter.

Lost in thought, I suppose. I would be, too. Doubtless she has got a lot to think about. Neither one of us says a word in protest when Doc backs out of the room and closes the door behind him.

"I understand I have you to thank." She beckons me with her right hand, and I approach the bed, feeling oddly tentative.

Shaking my head, I sit down, careful not to jostle her. "What did Doc tell you?"

"Not much. And that worries me." Her impossibly stormy eyes search mine.

"It wasn't me," I say then. "It was Kurt. And he didn't…he didn't make it."

I expect her to light into me, tear me a new one over everything that's gone wrong, but instead her long lashes sweep down. Her mouth compresses into a white line, and I se her throat working. I don't understand what's happening any more than I understood the slogan _Working girls prefer Sapphire._ Brittany reaches blindly for my hand, and I curl my fingers through hers. Waiting.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "You were right. There was nothing we could do up there, and Kurt shouldn't have died just so I could find that out."

Tears burn behind my eyes, and she's hurting me with her grip on my fingers. But I don't pull back. "Maybe you can't save the world, but you'll never stop trying. It's the best thing about you."

She opens her eyes then, and they're so full of tears I can't see her pupils. I hope it's the drugs talking as she bites out, "Save the world? I can even save the people I _care _about. It's fucking hopeless."

I've never seen her like this, and I don't know what to say. Reassurance isn't my style in the first place, and to make it worse, I don't disagree with her. She's tapped into _my _worldview, but I don't like seeing it on her.

But in the end, the only answer she needs right now is the warmth of my hand wrapped around hers as she fades out.

_**I give them three weeks.**_

See, it never seems like the right time to say it, from the moment I made up my mind. First Matt's scout ships came tearing after us, then we had to get to Gehenna, Brittany needed medical attention. Then I would've felt like shit to walk into the recovery room, ask how she's doing, then tell her I'm leaving. Not that that's going to be any easier now, but at least I won't feel like I'm kicking the woman while she's down.

So I bide my time, helping Dina with ship repairs when she's not seeing the docking agent, whose name is Clary. Doc seems to be taking advantage of the unscheduled R&R as well, raising hell with his old friend Ordo Carvati. But I'm glade when the clinic gives Brittany a clean bill of health because it means I can finally get it out in the open. Stop pretending I'm in this for the long haul.

You'd think that wouldn't help me any, but I've learned Brittany's partition trick. I know she's wondering why she can't read me anymore, but I've been careful not to give any sign of what I'm thinking. I didn't want to piss her off while she was recuperating.

Saying farewell aboard the _Folly _would prove to be impossible, so I've arranged to meet her for dinner at Molino's, got a nice little table in the atrium. I'm early. The ship's come to feel like home over the past months, but it's time to go.

I just want to step out into the throng and disappear. Live the rest of my life quietly. I'm tired of being pushed and pulled without my volition. I want to make my own choices from here on out, not so what someone else tells me. I don't give a shit about the greater good or changing the universe. A training academy isn't worth dying for. Shit, it's not even _my _dream. At this point, I don't know what that would be.

Yeah, I know it means I'll never see grimspace again, never feel the exhilaration that follows a good jump. But I guess I'm one of the rare ones after all. I can let it go.

Before she comes into sight, I know she's arrived. Don't ask me how; it's some Brittany-sense I wish i didn't possess, perhaps a remnant of jumping with a Psi pilot. I wish I'd learned more about her, but it's too late now. I've already removed my things from the _Folly_; they're in the bag Quinn gave me, stowed beneath the table. She strides between the tables, strong and vibrant, a little incongruous among the lattices and hanging vines. This part of the restaurant is meant to evoke a tropical garden, but thankfully they omitted the insects.

"Doc said you wanted me to meet you here," she says, but there's a question in her voice, echoed in her blue eyes. Brittany rests her palm on the back of the chair but doesn't sit, as if she suspects this is just a stop on the way to somewhere else.

"They have great stuffed pepper," I say, and that seems to startle her.

"Okay, I'll bits." She drops down in the chair opposite me. "What's up, San?"

"Dinner?" Maybe she'll take the news better with a full stomach. Regardless, it can't hurt, and I really do like their stuffed peppers.

So we eat, but I sense the currents stirring beneath our casual conversation. When the waiters clear our plates and we're left with just our wine to finish, I wrap both my hands around the glass because I feel the need to hold on to something. This is harder than I thought it would be.

"You want to tell me what's going on now?" She sits back in her chair, crossing her legs.

I take a deep breath. "It's time for us to part ways. I've been doing a lot of thinking since we left the station, and I just don't feel this is worth it."

Brittany starts to smile like she's waiting for the punchline. "No, seriously."

That's when I drop the mental walls she taught me how to build , and now I can feel her presence more than I ever could before. Perhaps it's a result of her absence; perhaps I'm simply developing a little of my own latent sensitivity.

"Seriously."

She shakes her head, seeming unable to believe what she's seen inside my head. "You can't go…we saved you."

"Yes, you did," I say gently. "And I saved you, too. I'll always be grateful to you for getting me off Perlas, but this isn't how I want to live. You don't own me."

I can tell she's getting angry. "What the hell do you think you're going to do, San? You have no creeds and no training."

"Doc paid me the wages I should have earned during the time I've been with you. He said he didn't think I should be stuck on the _Folly, _unable to enjoy myself." I'm trying not to argue with her because it's not open for debate. My mind is made up.

"You think that's going to last forever? What the frag do you think you can do here? Wait tables?" She gestures to the handsome young man, who takes one look at Brittany's face and heads the other way. "You'd kick someone in the head the first time he complained about the food."

I smile because she's right about that, but I've done some digging while we've been here. "I can probably get works at one of the fetish clubs. Gehenna caters to different tastes, you know." Scars, piercing, and body art are popular with a certain clientele.

"And _that's _what you want to devote your life to?" She sits forward then, elbows on the table, and her eyes sear me. "Letting freaks stare at you until you're so old they don't want to anymore?"

"No, but it'll put food on the table until I decide what I do want. Too many people have died, and I don't intend to be one of them."

"Nobody ever accomplished anything this big if people weren't willing to die for it. Maybe _I _won't see Mair's vision come to fruition, but we'll lay the groundwork so that others can come behind us and finish our work. One thing's for sure, though, I won't allow them to have died in vain because I'm afraid to see it through. You're a fucking coward, Santana, and you're running because you're scared you found something worth dying for, something more important that _you_."

I grit my teeth. "You know what I see? Someone afraid of finding something worth _living _for. Everyone you love dies, so you decided it's better to be a doomed hero, and you don't care who you drag down with you. Do you really believe in this cause, heart and soul, or is it just that there's nothing else for you? You're a pilot who doesn't want to fly because her ship's a monument to her dead sister, and you have the nerve to bitch at _me_? Get your own life in order before you come at me like you have all the answers."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I'm sorry. I see herd linch although nobody else would have known they'd drawn blood. She shoves her chair back so hard that the scraping sound momentarily silences the low hum of conversations nearby.

"Part of that maybe true," she growls. "But I don't use people, and I don't fuck my friends over. I get it, Santana, and I'll tell Doc and Quinn you took the opportunity to jump ship as soon as we arrived somewhere you'd rather be."

"Brittany…"

She doesn't turn, so I watch until her angry strides carry her out of sight. I don't have a chance to tell her it wasn't like that; I didn't lie to them, pretending to believe in what they were doing until I saw my chance to get away here. The cost just got too high, that's all. I didn't want it to end like this, but maybe I always knew we'd never wind up friends. Though I didn't always agree with her or even like her sometimes, Brittany is a rock, and you don't run across those too often.

And losing her hurts more than I thought it would because I've come to count on her. It nothing else, though, I believed in Brittany, and maybe deep down I hoped she'd see my point of view. If she hadn't reacted like that, I might have asked her to stay. I hadn't made up my mind, but her response decided matters for me. I finish my wine cooly, pretending the looks people keeps sliding my way don't bother me.

_Like none of you ever argued about anything. Or maybe you never cared enough._

It occurs to me then, she probably came down so hard on me because I hurt her. Maybe it felt personal, like a betrayal. And that pains me, but there's nothing I can do about it because it doesn't change my mind. I want a life, not sacrifice.

The waiter comes toward me like a child afraid of being slapped, so I muster up a smile and settle the bill. I collect my bag and leave with my head high. It's time to put all this behind me. I need to find work and a place to live. This is my new life, exactly what I wanted, and if I have a pain in my chest that won't go away, then I'll push t back.

That survival trick, you see? I've taken the old Santana and boxed her up. It's time to move on to the next Santana incarnation, but at this moment, even _I _can't see what kind of person shell be, what she'll do for a living, or whom she'll love.

My future seems misty, shrouded just like Gehenna's sun, and maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.


	14. Chapter 14

_**GRIMSPACE**_

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or Any of the Sirantha Jax series by Ann Aguirre that this is based on.

Her next Jump, may just be her last.

_**CHAPTER 14**_

_**Have you ever watched a child learning to walk?**_

Before this week, I never had, but there's a certain grace to it. Well, if not grace, then tenacity. Fall down nine times–get up ten. And the tenth time you get where you're going, you don't stop, not for obstacles, not for other people _telling _you to stop. You don't listen to anything but that inner voice until you arrive where you want to be.

When do we lose that? Of course, maybe that inner voice needs some refinement because it apparently also tells us to eat what comes out of our noses, and that it's funny to hit people in the head, but I think maybe it carries a true message, too, something we shouldn't lose.I learned that working with children this week, not school-aged ones with the start of civilization impressed upon them. No, these are hardly more than babies, just learning to walk, little schooners of self.

It's strange how it worked out. I went to Hidden Rue, expecting to take my place on the stage. By all accounts it's a hard core fetish club, where my scars might be an asset, but the old woman who owned the place took one look at me, and said, "You're too old, too scrawny, and your burns aren't interesting enough. What else can you do?"

For a moment, Brittany's mocking words came back to me, and I almost said, "Not a damn thing."

Instead I did what I do best, spun a nice line of bullshit, the result of which is me, helping to watch the dancer's babies. Hidden Rue is a decent place to work. Domina, the owner, takes good care of her girls. Futhermore, she looks like she probably danced here in her day since she's tattooed, tit-scarred, and probably pierced in places I don't want to know about. They say an interesting life leaves its mark on your face, and if that's true, she's got on hell of a story. She's the one who told me that Sapphire is a line of cosmetics favored by strippers and joy girls.

The women have to stick together here because the patrons tend to be rougher than what you get in a regular bar, guys who wish they'd inflicted those scars, those wounds. Or it's the other side of the spectrum, timid little sub missives who imagine each dancer as their own personal princess of pain. Occasionally we get others, too, mainly aliens who don't seem to realize the club's skewed west of the human norm.

I don't work the floor, though, so my contact with the public is minimal. Instead, I spend my evenings trying to entertain fractious toddlers who want their mothers, wail for no reason, and upchuck whenever it's likely to do the most harm. I've been hired to assist a woman named Mercedes, who glows with serenity like nobody I've ever known. She's short and round, skin the color of choclaste, so of course I like her on sight. She wears her hair in lose graying curls and might be anywhere between fifty and a hundred, though her smooth skin makes the latter unlikely.

We see a steady stream of dancers in costume in the crèche during the course of a night. They want a quick cuddle between sets, but it usually leaves the little one crying. Still, I think it's nice of Domina to offer child care, although she does take a small cut from the dancers who use the service. That seems fair enough, no reasons she should pay us entirely out of her own pocket. The babies I'm less sure about, although ironically my time with baby-Z has prepared me somewhat.

Mercedes even comments, "I can tell you've done this before. What happened to your little one, honey?"

"He died." I feel suffused with guilt all over again.

_If they knew what happened, they wouldn't let me work here. _

She accepts that with a shake of her head and says nothing more. Instead, there's a spill to clean up, and Mattin has hit Lleela in the head again. There's justice to dispense, and tears to dry; we're constantly moving until we get there to sleep one by one. This is my fifth evening on the job, and I go home bone-tired, but it's not a bad feeling. Instead, there's satisfaction in it, like I'm living a good life if not a large one.

It's penance. There's a reason I ended up here. I didn't do right by baby-Z, so I'll make it up as best I can. It's not what I'd choose to do, but I don't even know what that would be. The most important thing is that I'm accomplishing it myself.

In the mornings, I like to shop. So first thing, I get up and head over to the market. Sometimes I look at the diaphanous veils and belly jewels laid out, then at the next stall over I find totemic carvings and blessed kirpan waiting for those who believer in luck and talismans against evil. I linger over pottery and paintings. It seems as though I've never had a place of my own to decorate. In my parents' house, I had a room, of course, but I was never permitted to chance it or make it mine.

As I turn to leave the market, and old woman catches me by the arm. "Your shadow troubles you."

I expect to find a fortune-teller soliciting me, reading cards or bones or peering into a cup to glimpse my future in sodden leaves. But this woman is simply garbed in black; she might be a cook or a housekeeper, certainly someone's grandmother, for her back is bent and her face withered.

"My shadow's fine," I reply with a frown.

"She is not," the stranger insists. "She has gone away and dreams another dream. You shift what lives inside your skin until she does not know you. And without her, I do not know how you will face this destiny hanging on you. So many ghosts walk behind you, so many ghosts…" She shakes her head and sighs. "I will light a candle for you at Mary's shrine."

At that she releases my arm, and I expect her to ask me to pay for her blessing or insight, but she merely wraps her black shawl around her head and hurries on, as if she's tarried too long. I leave the market and head for home, feeling distinctly unsettles. Mercedes rented me a room in her building; the word "garret" seems to apply. My flat used to be a storage space before someone took the bright idea to replace half the walls with beveled glastique. Consequently, my ceilings slant beneath the line of the roof.

She told me it used to be an artist's studio; nobody's ever actually lived up here before. But I don't mind, the open vista and the altitude make me feel like I'm flying, which might make a muddier uneasy, but I've spent so much of my life on ships, this place feels perfect. It feels like home.

When she brings a bowl of soup up for my lunch, I just have to ask, "Why are you being so nice to me?"

She gives me a madonna's smile. "Mary teaches us that's how you change the world, one soul at a time, one kindness at a time. That's the only way it'll ever take root."

"Didn't they kill her for that doctrine?" I ask, taking the dish from her.

Mercedes shakes her head. "No, that was her son. They knew better than to martyr her. It was meant as an object lesson from the authorities, but it didn't shut her mouth. She went on to live a good life."

I've never been religious, never thought much on the oaths I swear, but I pause in spooning up a bite of soup. "That's why she's revered? For living a good life?"

I didn't mean to minimize its impotence, but I can tell my tone struck a chord because she drops down on the battered old sofa that came with my apartment. "Isn't that more than it sounds like, Santana? It's easy to do right when everything _goes _right. But let everything go wrong, and see how difficult it becomes."

"That's certainly true."

When she calls Santana with that tone, I think of my mother although I haven't seen her in fifteen years. I don't even know if she's still lave, but I don't harbor any illusions she'd be glad to see me. I made my bed when I ran away from boarding school and signed a contract with the Corp, when I decided not to be the pretty soulless accessory they were grooming me to be. And maybe I still don't know who I am, but it's not what they wanted. And that's enough, for now.

For some reason, I can't bring myself to tell Mercedes I don't have any faith. Mary is an idea, someone who lived long ago maybe, but she's nothing I believe in. I've never seen any sign of divinity or everlasting grace, except perhaps a whisper in the movements of that glass-dancer.

Hard as it may be to swallow, I think this shot's all we get. Science has proved there's nothing to talk of ghosts and spirits , no proof anything like the soul exists. And to my mind that's an argument against the existence of an omniscient force. I think people believe whatever makes living easiest, and who am I to deny someone comfort?

So I shut up and eat my soup.

_**I haven't been sleeping well.**_

It's been six weeks, and I can't get the old woman's words out of my head. Sometimes I catch myself looking over my shoulder for my shadow, and I never find one. I tell myself it's part of living on Gehenna, where there's no direct sunlight. Most citizens take regular UV treatments to make up for the deficiency.

But that's not the reason wake up dripping sweat, hands fisted in my bedcovers. Where I sleep would give anyone vertigo, mattress flush against the glastique wall. That's not my problem, either. First thing I do is roll over and look out over the city, see how the 'scrapers strive toward the unassailable sky. The skycabs and private hovercars swoop with silent grace, and I lie there listening to my heartbeat.

On another world, it would be drawn now, and I wake from the same dream, night after night, exactly this way. I run my palm over my biceps and feel the skin marred by scars, further roughed by goose bumps. I don't know what to do.

She's the last person I want to see when I close my eyes, and yet he's there, always the same. Since I'm a new Santana, building a new life, I try not to let myself think about Brittany, but she comes to me in dreams. I see her sitting on the edge of her bunk, elbows on her knees, head sunk into her hands. That's all, really, but it doesn't begin to encapsulate her solitude and despair. It's like she's one of the ghosts the old woman claimed she saw following me.

I hate how much I miss her. There's a hollow where she used to be, and it echoes with self-imposed loss. This is the life I _chose_, first decision I've made since I was seventeen and ran away from finishing school, so I nee to make the best of it.

I want to be happy, but my heart won't let me. In crowds I see her face. When I close my eyes, I see her face. And in dreams–

With a muffled groan, I crawl off my mat and collect my bath basket. I don't have a san-shower in my garret, so I go down and borrow from Mercedes. She lives just below me, and most mornings we breakfast together as well. Usually it's darning tea and toast with good marmalade.

She's coded the door to recognize me, so I don't wake her slipping in to take my shower. This morning I mange to get cleaned up and make the tea before she stirs. Scratching at he sleep-rumpled hair, she sits down at the small metal table that looks as if she salvaged it from a rubbish pile. Perhaps she did. But it's meticulously clean, if dinged and dented.

Mercedes takes one look, and says, "You dreamed of her again, hm?"

I give a curt nod in reply, wrapping my fingers around my mug for warmth I can't seem to generate on my own. It's like I sweat away my heat in fitful sleep, then for the rest of the day I walk around with a chill I can't dispel. Doubtless the old woman from the bazaar would say it's something to do with my missing shadow.

She can tell I don't want to talk about it, though, so she falls quiet, and we eat listening to the bittersweet melody of the music she calls folkazz. Before world, we go to piazza and listen to them play, old-fashioned instruments with reeds and strings. I like it, but there's a certain melancholy in their faces that says they know they belong to a lost era. Their music makes me think again of the ghosts that follow me.

Tonight, the children are especially querulous. If Gehenna experienced weather, I would say there's a storm coming. Perhaps there is, a dry lightning tempest somewhere beyond the safety of the dome. Mattin ail not climb off my lap, even to hit LLeela in the head, and that little girl has attached herself to Mercedes' leg; she will not dislodge herself for toys or treats. The others seem less affected, but they do quarrel more over small infractions of rights or personal dignity. And none of them will sleep.

So we get no peace until the last of the dancers collects her offspring, then we walk home together through the titian-tinged streets. Though the hour is late, Gehenna looks exactly the same, like a whore who paints her face night after night and holds secret ravages of time. I decline Merecedes' offer to come in an trudge up another flight to my flat. There's a lift in this building, but she tells me it hasn't worked in years.

Even before I let myself in, I smell the scent of a man's passage, but I don't expect to find him in my flat. I know how it must look to him: poor, eccentric, squalid. But it's mine. His back it turned to me, and he seems to be admiring the view. It's strange to see him amid my eclectic furnishings, my sleep-mat, the battered sofa, a softly glowing lamp with a fringed shade. But he spins as he senses my presence, even though I don't speak.

"It's been a while," Doc says, folding his hands behind him. "Hello, Santana."

"I thought you would have gone by now."

_Long before now, actually._

"Oh, we tried." And there's a certain heaviness to his tone that unnerves me. "We were so lucky o find Rachel. She failed basic academy training, but not through incompetence. One of her instructors took a fancy to her and gave her low marks when she refused to sleep with him."

"Yes, I imagine that's pretty rare. Would you like something to drink?" I keep my words neutral.

"No thank you. I won't stay long." He studies me for a moment, as if seeking something in my eyes or expression.

"How did you find me?" I thought I had well and truly disappeared.

That bothers me. If he found me, then the Corp could as well, not to mention bounty hunters. Gray men don't always work as a unit. Sometimes they dispatch a solo quietly to neutralize targets on worlds they don't control. It's not unreasonable to posit one such might be searching for me here, even now, and I can't be on my guard all the time. To make it worse, my presence might pose a danger to the children and to Mercedes. That I cannot permit.

"My old friend Ordo has excellent connections," he answers.

I suspect that's an understatement. Ordo Carvati can accomplish anything he wants in Gehenna. He's from one of the First families, and he's old money. It's to Doc's credit that he doesn't flaunt his friendship with such a man.

"But he can't find you another jumper?"

He hasn't moved from the center of the room, and none of his body language tells me this is a friendly visit. In fact, I would say he doesn't want to be here at all. That tells me a great deal about his state of mind.

At that he smiles, although there's a sad slant to it. "He cannot make miracles. I know what Brittany has said about you. And I've listened to Quinn's thoughts as well." By his careful phrasing I can well imagine the way the other two cursed me. He takes a step forward, and the glow from my fringed lamp finally touches his face. "Two days ago Quinn had a shunt installed. Ordo wouldn't do it, so she went to a black-market surgeon."

"A shunt?" I repeat blankly. "Why?" But even as I ask, I find myself fingering the jack hidden in my wrist.

"She says there's no one else," he answers.

Now I understand the heaviness in his voice. "That's crazy. She isn't trained."

I can't even imagine what grimspace would do to someone untrained, someone who doesn't possess the J-gene. Don't know whether it would kill her, drive her mad, or if all of them will be lost. I could find out, research the early days when they first discovered the Star Road, but something tells me knowing won't make it easier to bear.

Doc shrugs. "She seems to think determination and mental strength should make up for that. They don't know I'm here. Brittany was supposed to ask you back, perhaps two weeks ago. She said you refused."

That hurts. As long as I had known her, Brittany never lied. And yet she's learned how in order to avoid seeing me.

"She never came," I say quietly.

"I didn't want to believe what the others said, that you know, I can't imagine you'll let her do it."

"I won't." My hear sinks as I say it. But like Gehenna itself, these past weeks have been nothing but an illusion. I can't hide here. I can't lvd a quiet, simple life. "Of course I won't. Just let me get my things."

Quinn has lost so much. She imagines there's no reason not to take the risk. She might even see it as a way yo get back to Rachel. The people we love and lose never return to us, though, no matter how many shades we chase. And Brittany…Brittany would do anything to keep her word to Mair, no matter what the cost.

As I brush by him, Doc touches my shoulder. "You may not want to admit it, but you are a vital piece of the puzzle. No one has been the same since you went away."

I know there are probably other difficulties, mounting docking fee costs. Obstacles I haven't even considered. As in my dream, Brittany sits on the edge of her bunk, night after night, trying to find a way to succeed, trying to find a way out.

"It's not that I don't want to admit it," I tell him, weary beyond belief. "But I've spent my whole life doing as I'm told. This was the first time I ever did what _I_ want. But it turns out I'm not allowed, so I'll live and die on someone else's agenda. Burn out jumping, no matter what I want."

"Oh…" his expression tells me he hates putting me in this position but not enough to leave. And it's probably best that I go. It would kill me if anything happened to Mercedes because of me. "If it makes any difference, I don't think you _can _burn out."

I pause in stuffing my belongings into my bag. "What are you talking about?"

"I didn't want to say anything until I was sure. But I've compared your before and after images to other case studies, quite extensively over the past weeks." He shakes his head. "Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. In your first scan, I detected brain lesions consistent with AGSS. That test indicated burnout was inevitable and quite soon. Your next jump should have been your last. Instead, you came out, slept for three days, and when I took the next reading, all lesions had disappeared. Your brain looks as if you never jumped in your life, a student straight out of the academy."

The duffel slips from my hand. "How is that even possible?"

"I don't know." Doc shakes his head. "It's something to do with the L-gene I isolated but that's…not a human trait."

"You're saying I'm–"

"I'm saying you apparently don't need to worry about burnout."

I feel numb as we head out of my glastique flat, like I don't know what's true anymore. Doc takes my bag from my nerveless fingers, and I tuck my favorite lamp beneath my arm. Although it's late, I tap on Mercedes' door, declining it's offer to let me in.

She answers soon after, groggy but not alarmed, and her eyes go immediately to the man behind me. I glance at him, and it's like he's been hit by lightning. They simply stare at one another until I feel superfluous and clear my throat.

"I'm leaving," I say without explanation or apology. "I'm sorry I can't stay until you find a replacement for me at Hidden Rue."

Her eyes are so gentle. "It's all right, child. I knew your fate didn't rest with me. Call it a fuel stop for the soul, hm?"

Yes, that's exactly what it was. I hug her, then murmur, "This is my friend, Sam Evans. Most people just call him Doc, though." To him, I add, "This is Mercedes."

She smiles with unearthly sweetness. "I'll be seeing you again, I think."

I don't know whether she's talking to him to me. It doesn't matter, really. We go then, down many flights of satire and into Gehenna night, which looks the same as Gehenna dawn or Gehenna dusk. I think maybe I;m ready to go. Doc doesn't speak during our return to the spaceport.

As I walk up the ramp to the _Folly_, I glance back once and see my shadow.

_**I'm unpacking when the door to my quarts slides **_open.

They've erased all trace of my presence here; the room-bot doesn't even recognize me any longer. So I have no personal control over my environment at the moment although I have propped my fringe lamp up at the end of my bunk. Without turning, I know that it's Brittany standing behind me.

"You were going to let Quinn die before asking me for help?" Attack is the best alternative here. "And then you lied about it? Asshole."

I face her then, but it's a casual movement, born of stowing my now-empty bag into the bottom of the storage closet where I've hung my clothes. Though I manage not to react, I'm shaken by how haggard she looks. She's visibly thinner, her hair is unkept, and there's a terrible darkness in her eyes that has nothing to do with their hue.

"Yeah," she says with a flicker of her old bite. "And that's so much worse than abandoning people who depend on you."

You know, I've never been in this position before. Never had to remember who I used to be and try to become that woman again. Who was I before I walked away? I remember it hurt me to say farewell to this woman. I bled when she left me in Molino's, her accusations ether in acid, eating at me from the inside out. And now those feelings return as I wriggle back into her soul.

_My soul._ A thing I didn't believe in until I spent time with Mercedes._ Oh Mary, I'm so broken. _Never realized how fragmented I've become until this moment. I'm a mirror where someone sunk their fist, a thousand tiny images refracted from that fissure, and none of them complete.

"I couldn't make you understand then," I say softly. "And I can't now. I hoped you could find someone else. I don't see myself as irreplaceable."

She steps fully into my room, and the door swishes shut behind her. "You think jumpers grow on trees? Why do you think we settled for you in the first place?"

That sends a stab of fresh pain through me, but I don't let it show. Maybe she can feel it. I don't know anymore. "I thought it was tied to Doc's research."

"Trust you to be literal." Brittany glances around my quarters, which seem smaller with her standing there. She flexes the fingers on her left hand; that's a new nervous habit. "Yeah, it had to be you. But if you're just going to run away again–"

"No, I'll see it through." _Like I have a choice._ I'm bound here, and I don't know why I didn't see it sooner. "Brittany, I'm sorry for what I said about your sister."

Her intake of breath sounds so loud. "She wasn't why I stopped piloting."

"I know, I was mad, so I put two and two together to make twelve." Hesitate for a moment, then add, "And I wanted to hurt you."

"You did."

The words lie between us like a gauntlet. I don't know what she means, so I choose the coward's course. Apropos, I think. "I'm sorry."

She shrugs. "It's nothing new."

"What–"

"You think it didn't cut me every time you thought of her?" Her jaw clenches. "You think I didn't bleed when you left my bed to scrub away my touch and deify her memory? You think it didn't hurt when you _left_ me? Santana, you've been slicing me to bits for months, and there's damn near nothing left."

Brittany…" But she's not interested in whatever I might say.

She shakes her head. "I'm not letting you do that to me anymore. It's going to be different this time."

I know what's coming, and I'm not going to let her say it, not when I'm just starting to figure things out. "I didn't think about her when I went away." I step closer and her whole body tenses, although whether in anticipation of pain or pleasure, I couldn't say. "I dreamed of _you._"

I can't believe I told her that. But the moment thrums with such stark honesty that I can't offer her less. I never knew I had the power to hurt her, only that she possessed the power to hurt _me._

Her ridiculously long-lashed eyes search mine, as if for some sign I'm going to turn this into a cruel joke, but I hold her look, letting her see the truth. Funny how I can tell when she's reading ,e now; it's a little prickle on the back of my neck.

"You mean it," she says, after a moment.

"Yeah." That same candor compels me to add, "I wouldn't have done anything about it, though. I wouldn't have come back."

"I know." She smiles then. "We're great ones for burning bridges, you and I. Slamming doors hard enough that we're not tempted to knock on them again."

"That sounds about right."

Brittany touches my hair, tentative, as if she thinks one wrong move will frighten me away. I close my eyes and draw a deep breath at the feel of her fingers on the nape of my neck. When I don't recoil, she pulls me close, and I wrap my arms around her waist, running my hands up her back. She's so thin I can count her ribs with my fingertips.

Oh Mary, I missed this. She feels…right, just as she did on Lachicon. I remember how she drove away the bad dreams, even then. I remember how her arms always felt like they could protect me from anything,but maybe I was afraid because I never accept that from anyone. I never admit I might need it.

"Tell me this isn't what you were running from." Lacing our fingers together, she flattens my palm over her heart. "I can't compete with a ghost, though. I won't even try. So if you want me to let go, just say so and –"

I shake my head. "I don't know, it may have been part of it, but I…I laid her to rest somewhere on Gehenna."

Brittany tips my face up, studying my features intently for a moment, then she swings me up into her arms, and I realize I haven't even asked about her recovery. She must be all right, though, because she carries me over to the bunk and settles with me in her lap. I feel her running her hands up and down my back, stroking my thick, coarse hair. I expect…_more_ I suppose, but she doesn't even kiss me.

"No," she says, shaking her head. "That was too soon, and I paid for it. Probably should've just let you sleep with Matt. I just–"

"Couldn't stand to see someone else touching your woman?"

She exhales into my hair, and I shift enough to glimpse her sheepish expression. "I know. Big cliché, right?"

I find myself reassuring her. "A certain amount of territoriality between mates is natural. I know we're supposed to be enlightened, but some things just don't breed out."

Her smile widens into a grin, and it's only then that I trap what I've said. But I don't try to take it back. When Brittany tilts her head against mine, my mind swims for a moment, then I'm full of her. She shows me everything, a barrage of impressions, and I understand why I can't resist her. She's just like me; compartmentalized, broken, a jumbled mass of jagged edges she conceals beneath biting wit and confidence.

"You can't imagine what it's like. Hearing secret thoughts, then listening to lies spoken with a smile. It kills the soul, San. I was a monster when I met Mair. She turned me into a decent human being and taught me to control it." She hesitates, shuddering, and I reach up to stroke her cheek. I know she's not going to be in a confessional mood forever. "But after our first jump, I'd find myself in your head without any clue how I got there. It scared the shit out of me. I'd stopped piloting because Mair said there were risks associated with a Psi-sensitive using wetware."

"I guess it would. I thought you just were doing it to piss me off." I smile up at her to take the sting out of my words, but I have to wonder what risks Mair was talking about. Wonder if she left anything in my PA. "Do the others know?"

"No! They wouldn't understand. They'd be afraid of me, afraid of what I know. San…" Her tones turns wondering. "Do you have any idea why a miracle you are? What you say is exactly what I see in your head. No disparity, no dirty secrets. Even when you detested me, you made no bones about it."

I grin at her. "You like a little honest hatred, huh?"

"I guess I do. Spice things up." She pulls me closer, resting her chin on my head, and I listen to her heart.

Hard to say who's most surprised when the door slides back. Shit, I forgot it will open for anyone right now. Guess it's a good thing we're just curled on my bunk together. Doc still looks astonished, though.

"I wanted to say that we're clear for departure." He clears his throat. "Anytime."

"We didn't kill each other," I say with a grin. "We'll head to the cockpit shortly."

Right now, Brittany looks more at peace than I've ever seen her, and it's a little hard to reconcile that serenity as being related to me. I shake things up, create chaos and agitate for change, but I've never been accused of being restful.

She cups my cheek in her palm, and murmurs to Doc, "Five minutes. Now get out."

I truly hope we're going to make good use of that time.

_**We're not going where I thought we were.**_

As Brittany and I emerge from quarters, we find Doc and Quinn waiting for us in the hub. To my surprise, neither look like they want to kill me, although Sam's expression gives me pause. He sighs and powers up the comm station. I avoid touching it whenever possible because Kurt is supposed to be sitting there.

"I think you's better take a look at this."

When I lean forward, I see an old holo-newsfeed, dated almost two months back, A dark-haired woman with a small mouth and perfect coif smiles without showing teeth. This is notable only because she manages to speak without shoeing them, either. I think she mistakes this facial immobility for a proper "grave business" expression.

"Citizens of Conglomerate, we urge you to be on your guard. Although we've tried to contain this matter internally, we of Farwan Corporation cannot in good conscience"–I snort at that–"continue our search without revealing the inherent danger we all face. This woman, Santana Lopez…"

Here, an unflattering picture of me flashes in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. "A former employee has escaped from our secure facility on Perlas Station, where she was awaiting trial for her involvement in the death of eighty-two souls aboard the _Sargasso._ We do not know the names or identities of her accomplices, but we do speculate they may be the terrorists responsible for the strike against the conference on Matins IV. Their reign of terror continues unabated. Our operatives tracked them to DuPont Station, where for reasons known only to themselves, they–"

My breath hisses out of me in a rush. "We didn't blow the station!"

"No, we most certainly did not," Doc agrees with a sight. "But so far as the rest of the Conglomerate is concerned, we _did_."

"Why would they do that?" My knees feel shaky as I keep seeing the explosion time and again. "And how did they even know we were there?"

Quinn finally speaks but she sounds matter-of-fact. "My guess is, Matt contacted them, intending to cut a deal. Maybe he was tired of playing mad scientist with Israel and wanted recognition from the Conglomerate. Maybe he was tired of worrying about them showing up to evict him if he ever became an annoyance. But he wouldn't have been able to negotiate without you, Santana."

"He didn't want to kill us, just stall us until they arrived," Brittany agrees.

I feel her hand light in the small of my back, a proprietary gesture. The other two make note of it, but they don't comment, which had to cost Quinn. She even smiles at me. Just what the hell is going on?

"We don't know exactly what transpired," Doc says, "but they've clearly pinned the blame on us. And that's not the worst of it."

"There's more?"

"Indirectly." He picks up the device he was showing Quinn when we emerged from quarters and starts indicating reading that don't mean anything to me. "The problem is, they've closed the doors to us that we need the most."

"You don't need me for this," Brittany interjects. "I'm getting us off this rock while you bring her up to speed."

I guess she already knows this stuff. And yeah, I'm a _little _disappointed when she walks off without looking back, t I redirect my attention without being obvious. I already knew Brittany was practical. She's never going to sit at my feet and write me poems, which is good because I hate poetry, except the dirty ones that rhyme.

"Anyway," Doc says pointedly, and I roll my eyes. Sometimes he reminds me of my professors. "I've been studying your scans, comparing them with the sample I took from the Mareq." I flinch, but he seems not to notice. "Your DNA isn't entirely…human. I alluded to it back at your flat, but the truth is, in all my case studies, I've never seen the L-gene append to the J-gene, as it has in you. I was hoping to _achieve_ that through years of engineering, but it appears that our work has been done for us, either by nature or design."

"You're saying–"

"I don't know. I don't even know how this is possible." He bites the words off. "What we need to do is retrace your steps, dig into your early life and try to discover how this happened, so we can duplicate it. That may be the best shortcut available; otherwise, we'll spend months gathering samples before I can ever begin to work."

The _Folly _trembles, powering up, and Quinn pushes away from the console. I think she doesn't want to loo at it anymore, and I can't blame her.

"By making us infamous, they've shut the door on us," she mutters. "We can't use official ports, and you grew up on New Terra, right? _That's _where we need to be."

"The three of you can go. They said they don't know who my accomplices are. I can wait on the _Folly_. Maybe you can find something out."

She shakes her head. "That's bullshit, Santana. We registered on Perlas. They know the name of the ship, and they have our sequence codes. How else did they send this?"

Sam fires up the terminal again, saying only, "What I showed you before, that was just the attachment. This is the message."

A man with sea-blue eyes and elegant, chiseled features comes on-screen. I drop down hard in Kurt's chair because I recognize him. For several moments I see his lips moving but no sound registers, and Quinn touches my shoulder.

"You all right?" At my mute nod, she says to Doc, "Ithink you better replay it."

"Santana, this message has been bounced off all public relays. I implore you, surrender now. Turn yourself in at the nearest Corp outpost, and we'll tend to your treatment. You're confused, unwell, and perhaps do not realize your actions are wrong."

_Shit._

Simon always was a persuasive bastard. On-screen, he's the image of a concerned husband. I haven't seen him in years, but now they've got him acting as the face of Farwan, hoping to entice me back? They must really think I _am _crazy. I don't understand why they've painted me as an interstellar terrorist, though. Is it spin, covering up their negligence on Matins IV, or are they using me to hide something else entirely? Whichever the case, I suspect they're widening the net.

"The only place we're safe is here in the Outskirts." Both Quinn and Doc nod, waiting to see where I'm going by stating the obvious, I guess. "But you think something in my past could provide answers?"

"It's our best hope," Sam replies, stroking his goatee with two fingers. "Also the most dangerous course for obvious reasons."

I glance at Quinn, but she picks today to begin keeping her mouth shut. "Then that's where we need to go."

Can't imagine what my parents are going to say after all this time. Assuming we can find a place to dock. After all, New Terra is a Conglomerate world, firmly in the clutches of Farwan Corporation. It's going to take all our combined ingenuity to keep from winding up in a cell.

The ship lifts, a subtle jolt. We steady ourselves on the console as Brittany guides us through the locks that will liberate us from Gehenna. Now that I've tried flying this damn thing, I can't help but feel impressed. Consider he rusty she must've been on Perlas, and yet she's taking us out of the atmosphere so smoothly we can scarcely register the shifts in altitude. She's really, really good.

"I'm sorry," I say to Quinn.

"For what?"

I don't see the scar on her wrist or even a bandage. The surgeon must have been first-rate. _Rare in a black-market doctor._

"Leaving."

She cocks a brow at me. "I don't blame you for wanting some leave, San. It's been a pretty fragged-up run, hasn't it? And we could scarcely have found a safer port."

I narrow my eyes at Sam. "You lied to me."

He turns, offering me a layers smile. "Quinn never doubted you were coming back. So I had to make that happen, didn't I?"

_They never told her I left for good?_

Doc's ice blue eyes tell me things I never knew about him: he'll lie, cheat, or steal to unearth the truth. On the surface, he's the model of chivalry, courtesy, and kindness, a gentleman scholar. But he analyzed the situation and told me exactly what would get me back on board. And here I am.

"What's going on?" Quinn glances between us, interested but wary. And so I fill her in. By the time I've finished, she can't get her breath for laughing. "Just how stupid do think I am? If you took off, we'd stay till we found someone. Like hell do I see myself as a jumper; I had fun with Clary. Wouldn't have minded hanging around another couple of weeks, but Sam said you were ready to get back to it."

Beneath his intellectual exterior lies a ruthless bastard. And this is the first time I've seen it. I experience a frisson of unease, as if I've been sailing along a smooth sea, unaware of dangers that lurk unseen.

Between Brittany and Doc, I have been _handled._


	15. Chapter 15

_**GRIMSPACE**_

A/N: I think there's only about two more updates after this one! Getting close!

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or Any of the Sirantha Jax series by Ann Aguirre that this is based on.

Her next Jump, may just be her last.

_**CHAPTER 15**_

_**We bitch at each other throughout the entire jump.**_

I've never done that before, didn't even know it was possible. We're lucky we didn't wind up past the Polaris system, halfway to Old Terra, I unplug and bounce out of the nag chair, glaring at Brittany, hands on hips.

"I can't believe I bought into this again. You and Doc, you two would say anything to keep me here. What about the stuff you said in my quarters? Was that bullshit, too?"

"No," she answers, setting our cruise course for New Terra. "He said he'd figure something out, but I have never lied to you."

"No you have lackeys do that for you."

"Are you _looking_ for a reason to fight with me?" She unstraps and pushes to her feet. "I can't fake anything with you. I had no fragging clue how he meant to get you back here. And when you said that about Quinn dying, I almost said,'Huh?'"

"So why didn't you?"

"I wanted to find out what he told you." Brittany cups my shoulder gently. "Look at me and swear you honestly don't believe I thought you were never coming back."

It's true, she looks like shit, but I don't want to be persuaded. I want to argue. "I don't know." Both my hands curl into fists at my sides. "I'm tired of having nobody I can trust. Tired of people keeping secrets from me, tired of not being sure whether I'm even working for the _good_ guys."

"San, I can't promise we're squeaky clean, but look at the opposition. They killed eighty-two people on the _Sargasso _for unknown reasons. They blew up DuPont station with two hundred souls living there, not counting the unborn." She breathes like merely thinking of it hurts her. "But I'm solid, right?"

"I guess so," I mutter.

When she pulls me toward her, I lean my head against her collarbone, wondering if I can truster. Wondering whether I can trust my own judgment. I've known from the beginning they intend to use me, and Brittany is bound by so many debts and promises, none of them to me.

Her hands play over my back. "I know you're mad. Did you yell at Doc?" Feeling sheepish, I shake my head. "Why not?"

"I'm afraid to provoke him," I confess, low. "I don't know him like I thought I did."

"You're afraid to provoke Sam," she repeats, looking incredulous. "Who's a _pacifist_. So you take it out on me." Brittany shakes her head. "You're one of a kind, San. We've got eight hours before New Terra. Come on."

Put that way, I know it doesn't make a lot of sense. I think about it, trying to quantify the feeling, but I can't/ Maybe I'm mixing Doc up with the Unit Psychs or even Jacob Israel. Do I really think he's capable of greater malice? I don't fucking know. At best he believes the end justifies the means, and I can't sort it out. So when Brittany reaches for me, I take her hand and let her lead me to her quarters.

As she guides me to the bed, I whisper, "I thought you said it was too soon."

She kissed my forehead. "Not for this. I'm tired, but I want you with me." In an economy of movement she drops onto the mattress, then rolls to her side, back to the wall. "Unless you have somewhere else you'd rather be." There's a certain vulnerability in her voice, and maybe I can play on that while I gaze around her cabin, pretending to take in the bunk built out from the wall, the closet adjacent to the san facilities, and the personal sys-term on the opposite wall. "San?"

"I think I can clear my schedule fro you."

The bunk feels firm beneath my knees; it doesn't give as I slide down onto my side, facing her. One thing's for sure; whoever designed the _Folly _didn't anticipate the crew sharing their sleeping space, which seems a little shortsighted. Only centimeters separates us, then she drapes an arm over my waist, pulling me closer.

"Lights off."

I'd know her in the dark. She always smells of citrus and a darker woodsy scent, like standing in a cedar forest at midnight. her heat washes over me, chin to shins, and my toes curl.

"Do you ever think about him?"

"Him who?" Brittany sounds drowsy. She runs a hand over my head, knotting his fingers in the course curls. But gently, like I have silken princess hair.

"Baby-Z."

We've never really talked about that night. It's about time we did if we intend to move on from it.

She stirs then, pushing up on one elbow. "You feel guilty."

"Yeah." That seems inadequate, but I don't have words to translate that moment where we knelt, mutually awed by the small miracle unfolding at our feet to how I felt when I realized I had splattered a helpless, living creature along with Jacob Israel.

I don't know anything about what his life might've been like, or how his parents may have felt when they awoke to find one of their young missing with no explanation. I don't even have the framework to grieve properly.

I squirm, sick with remembrance of my casual brutality. Beneath the guilt, I suffer the certainty I wouldn't have shot so fast it had been a human child in Israel's arms. Deep down I'm another thoughtless bigot who believes in human skin privilege. My life is worth more because I have a particular biochemistry? The realization repulses me.

And it devalues the heroism of someone who gave his life for me.

"I can't absolve you," she says quietly. "All I know is, if it had been you on the ground, I'd have done the same thing."

"You feel this way a lot? Like nothing you do could be enough to make up for it."

In the half-light, her eyes go strange and distant, fringed in those impossible lashes. "You get used to it. And occasionally you run across something you can do to try to brighten up the dark places."

Brittany doesn't say it, but I know that's why she feels like she needs to try twice as hard as anyone else. If she lets her guard down, she might go skidding down that slippery slope again. And maybe I won't recognize what comes out the other side.

"Thus you play the hero."

With a nod, she brushes her lips against my ear. Sparks just shimmer down my spine. This woman's pure narcotic, delicious and addictive. Don't know how I thought I could walk away from her for good.

"San, I can't think about what I'd do if something happened to you, if it _had _been you on that floor." Her mouth comprises into a thin white line, and a shudder runs through her. "You just font know…the things I've done. What I'm capable of. I hope you never do."

When she gets like this, she scares me a little. I run my fingers along her jaw, feeling the tension thrumming through her. That would be why she still keeps certain things partitioned when we're jacked in. I hope she trusts me enough to let me in, someday.

"Let it go," I say quietly.

And realize the suggestion applies to me as well, but it's easier said than done. I can't just write off the guilt or stop wishing things were different. Neither can she. Brittany acknowledges the rightness of my thought with a half smile.

Mary, I've never had this kind of connection with anyone. How does she bear being part of me? Sometimes I can't stand _myself_.

"I'm sorry about baby-Z…he's just one more weight on me. If we hadn't gone to Marakeq, he'd have hatched by now. Be living out his normal span. Instead, he's just a bunch of samples in Doc's database."

"I did that."

"Yeah. But a hundred turns from now, baby-Z will be remembered. He's making a contribution. Maybe that will help, someday, when the academy is more than a dream."

I exhale against her that in a long sigh and close my eyes. "I don't imagine that would console his parents much. I wish we could tell them. Somehow."

"Maybe we can. Somehow. Get some sleep, San. We can't fix everything.

Brittany makes a good point. And I'm flat busted, so I take her good advice.

_**Don't know how much later it is when I stir, finding myself **_ wrapped tight in someone's arms. _Brittany_. I'm on the _Folly_ again. It all comes back to me although I'm not mad anymore. How can I be when I wanted this, deep down? I couldn't sleep for dreaming of her. To reassure myself that I'm awake, I run my hand down her waist, finding the gap between shirt and slacks. I delight in dragging my nails lightly over her lower back and feeling her shiver. Goos bumps spring up wherever I touch.

Her eyes open to slits, dark sapphire, pale silver flecks. "What're you doing?"

"Stroking you." I pillow my cheek on my forearm and continue inscribing patterns on her spine.

"I'm not a pet," she murmurs. "And you're making it hard to sleep."

"Am I?" I smile and hook my thigh over hers. The way I figure, it's time. Life-affirming ritual, unspoken promises to each other, and a lot of other pyschobabble that boils down to wanting sex.

And I do. But it's more than that, this time. I needed the time away to reflect and heal, but I needed to come back, too, even if I would never have done it on my own.

"You know you are."

She skates her palm from its innocuous resting place between my shoulder blades to curl around my hip. The heat feels good, but it pales in comparison to the tingles that sparkle through me when Brittany slides her hand lower, cupping my thigh. Deftly, she searches out nerves on my inner thigh, caressing through the thin fabric of my trousers. I squirm against her a little, not an intentional tease; I just can't help it.

Then she looks into my eyes. I register the silent question and nod, but as she tilts her head against mine, I realize I haven't said yes to what I intended. Thought she was going to strip me naked, but instead she goes inside me another way. My head's full of her, awash in sensual images I only half process as they amplify my arousal. My breasts ache, as if she's sucking on them, and I fell hot, damp, between my thighs, so ready. She hasn't even touched me.

"Britt…" At that she shifts her head away, leaving me lonely and shuddering. "Wh-what did you do to me?"

"I could get you off that way," she whispers. "Just me, inside your head."

Instinctively I know that's not an idle boast. She left me so close, panting on the precipice, and if she moves, I might lose it, grinding myself against her like I'm in heat. The very idea wrenches a moan out of me.

"Have you done that often?" I'm surprised at my tone.

Oh Mary, I hate the thought of her making anyone else feel this way.

But she shakes her head, a faint smile pulling at her mouth. "Two things make this possible. Our theta waves are compatible, and you're wide-open to me. Even untutored minds have basic shield that prevent such intrusion, San; it's a fundamental human trait. With other people, I skim the surface and only see their superficial thoughts. I've never been…part of anyone before." She cups my cheek in her palm, long fingers stroking my temple. "That's what I want without you running away afterward. I want to fall asleep and know there's no place you'd rather be."

I tremble, afraid to envision it. Though I know some pilots and jumpers do it jacked in, I always dismissed it as a kink. Brittany doesn't need wetware, though. I find myself unable to resist the mental images, our bodies straining as she saturates my senses completely, no sense of self, drowning in mutual pleasure.

"Yes."

I seek her mouth in the artificial darkness, finding it first with my fingertips. Her lip part, a flicker of heat as she licks my skin. And I replace my hand with my lips, starving for her. This time I'm the aggressor, nuzzling the tenderness of her mouth to taste her, explore the texture of a rough velvet tongue, the smooth bone of her teeth. I want to crawl inside her, devour her.

_Can't remember feeling this way before._

With a muffled groan, she rolls me beneath her, and I know a moment of pure euphoria. She can't resist, no matter what she said about it being too soon. I want everything she described, everything–

Shakes.

So hard we tumble from the bunk and hit the floor, hard. Brittany is good but we're not even having sex yet, so I don't think I can claim the earth moved. _Of all the Mary- sucking luck. _I can't get my breath for a variety of reasons. She landed on top of me, and…I think she broke my rib.

"Shit, you okay?" she asks, crawling off me.

The ship's alarm sound on cue.

_**Lucky we aren't scrambling to get dressed as we stumble **_into the corridor.

The _Folly_ listing like this can mean only one thing, and we take another hit as the four of us intersect in the hub. The bombardment continues. I smell something burning, and Quinn looks…panicked. Never seen that expression before, so whatever's gone wrong, she can't fix it.

_Shit._

"We've got a breach," she says, breathless. "Cruised too close to New Terra, and now their Satellite Defense Installation is all over us. No surprise, we're on the shit list. Only thing we can do now is try to sneak into the atmosphere with the shuttle."

"Why didn't someone wake me before we got in rage?" Brittany growls. "I didn't plan on coming up the front door and knocking!"

"You didn't tell us to, you brainless hump." Quinn glares at us both. "Besides, you're the one who left us to go roll around with Santana."

"The only rolling came when we fell off the bed." That's probably an unnecessary correction, but trivia keeps me calm.

"There's no time for this," Doc says. "I suggest we get to the shuttle immediately."

To think I could still be on Gehenna, wiping baby spit off my shoulder. I spare a thought for Mercedes and Domina, Mattin and Lleela, and for my lovely glastique flat. I want to go back; it's home. I want to make love with Brittany there, so it feels like we're flying.

First we have to live through this, however.

Doc's logic can't be argues, so Brittany answers, "Get anything you need from quarters, only necessities, and meet back in two minutes. The shuttle's leaving in three. _Move_, people."

We spring into motion. In my case I'm heading to quarters to grab a change of clothes and my PA. _I just unpacked, dammit._ It's hard to tell what I've got, but I cram it all in the bag and move down the hall at a dead run. When I reach the hold, I see Quinn waiting. She's got the doors open, and I regard the boxy little vessel dubiously.

"How the hell is this thing going to get us to the surface under fire?"

"It won't be fired on," she assures me. "I can trick out the energy readings so our signal will be lost amid the big boom the _Folly_'s going to make. Just got to time it right."

"If you say so." I climb aboard and buckle myself into the second row of seats.

She follows, but she gets in front, choosing the copilot's chair. Better to make the techno-mojo, I suppose. My hands feel like I've been squeezing squid, and my stomach keeps trying to push out my throat. If I hate terrestrial driving, then I hate shoe boxes like this ten times more. A kid on a scooter could take us out, let alone the kind of damage those SDIs are dealing.

Brittany and Doc arrive simultaneously, although the geneticist frets as he clambers in beside me. "I hope I retrieved all my data. Got the Mareq samples…but I've discovered some unexpected links since I've been studying your most recent scans–"

"Shut up and strap in." Nice to know Brittany doesn't reserve her charm for me alone.

"Yes, of fourse." Doc piles his things at his feet and complies as the larger ship feels like it's shaking to pieces around us.

"Life support's online. We've got maybe two hours before the air starts to go bad," Quinn tells us, as if we didn't have enough to worry about.

"Get the loading doors open, Quinn. We're going for a ride." I'm disgusted to detect a note of pure exhilaration in Brittany's voice.

Swear to Mary, she thrives on adversity, and if that's the case, no wonder she wants me around. Where I used to be charmed, everything I touched turned to gold; since Matins IV, it's like I stepped through a witching mirror to the other side. But hey, at least Brittany enjoys my jinx, right?

"Sure thing, boss."

As the doors swing open, I decide there's nothing scarier than seeing space with just a few centimeters of poly-metal alloy between you and horrible asphyxiation. However, there's a bright side. If we wind up out there, we'll only have about ten seconds to feel sorry for ourselves.

"I give the poor girl thirty seconds," Quinn says, hushed, like someone's dying.

At first I think she's talking about me, but then we almost seem to drift off the _Folly_. Brittany uses power sparingly, and I glimpse the first hint of what Quinn meant. With hull splintered, huge husk of metal adrift, she looks like she's about to break in two. Yet the SDI fires with the relentless precision of a machine-driven attack.

I can't watch, so I squeeze my eyes shut. It feels like we're moving too slow; any minute the SDI could figure out that we're not wreckage. But maybe that's the key here, just as if in nature. In my survival training, we never learned to run from a predator; it just make it think you're something that should be chased.

At least my ribs stopped hurting–nothing like adrenaline to cure what ails you.

"Now," Quinn orders." She's going to piece. Head for the surface!"

In such a small craft I feel the speed especially in my stomach, and I become aware of Doc, gray-faced and sweating beside me. He lied to me, so why should I care if he looks worse than I feel? _But we're a team, whether I like it or not._ Wordlessly I offer my hand, and he squeezes it as if he wants to make blood shoot out my fingertips.

We come screaming into the atmosphere like an angry comet. Did we leave a trail? Is anyone coming behind us going to be able to tell what happened? Any minute I expect the shuttle to shake apart, but Brittany manages amid cursing that does Mair proud.

Quinn monitors panels and sensors, muttering suggestions. "Ease up, dammit. You're going to burn out the stabilizers, and I don't think we want to test impact resistance in this thing."

She spares her a look. Not just a look, _the_ look. "You want to fly this?"

_Huh, I'm not the only one who gets that._

"No, but just remember–"

Oh, that noise can't be good.

"Told you to ease up." She sounds so smug, considering the shuttle wobbles like it wants to start spinning and not stop until we collide, hard, with the ground.

Although I'm not an expert, I tend to prefer that doesn't happen. They bicker back and forth while Doc crushes the shit out of my hand. Maybe I believe too much in Brittany, but I don't think we're going to crash. Sure enough, even with the unsteady shimmy, side-to-side stir-fry action, she manages to slow the shuttle, skimming over the ground as she looks for a place to land.

Brittany puts us down just before the stabilizers crackle for the let time. Doc staggers out as soon as the doors open, falls onto his hands and knees. I turn away so I don't have to see him getting sick. My stomach still feels shaky, and that's not helping. I step away, then scrape a palm over my face. _Time to take stock._

We're in the middle of a field.

If Old Terra is a ghetto world, an urban sprawl stripped of natural resources, then New Terra is its farm colony. Cities here are few and far between. I lived in New Boston, where my parents styled themselves "society," but this infinite expanse of golden grain boasts no landmarks. Overhead, the sky looms heavy and gray, indifferent, but the wind smells of damp earth and growing things, an echo of my childhood clear as a phantom with twin plaits and a handful of sweets.

"So where are we?" Quinn asks. To my vast exasperation, they all regard me with expectant expressions, even Brittany, like I should be able to pinpoint our location via some native global positioning system.

"New Terra."

Doc straightens, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I believe she meant more specifically, Santana."

_No shit?_ The man really has a penchant for stating the obvious. That's the trouble with geniuses; most of them seem to lack anything like a sense of humor, so they're forever "clarifying" for other people when they were, in fact, being smart-asses.

"You know it's been like sixteen years since I've been here right,? And I wasn't a world traveler before I signed with the Corp, not that there's too much to see." I wave a hand at the vegetation, which, thanks to the wind, seems to wave back. "But it's definitely a Conglomerate world. The Corp has their home office here."

"Well," Brittany says, "since we can't fly the shuttle, we need to get some distance from it. I don't think we want to be found here if someone comes looking."

That's the first sensible thing I've heard. We have grey men and bounty hunters looking for us. Neither will stop until they bring us in, the former for order and honor, the latter or the payday. Now that we're stranded in enemy territory, shit's only going to get harder. Brittany glances at me, smiling. She really does love this.

Quinn shrugs. "If we're going, let's go. We're burning daylight."

I sling my bag over my shoulder while Doc fidgets with various bits of gear. What he took to be essentials seems a lot more that what the rest of us grabbed.

My stomach growls. Can't remember when I ate last. Jump-travel has a way of lagging the shit out of your biosystems. "Did anyone the ink to snag rations?"

"I've got a week's worth of paste." Brittany doesn't look delighted by the prospect, though, and she's the survival specialist.

"Perfect," Sam says, all loaded up. Good thing he's strong; he'll need to be. "It could always be worse, hm?" he adds, sounding determinedly cheerful.

Nobody responds to that, but before we walk ten meters, it starts to rain.

_**Brittany is the only one who brought bivouac.**_

Like I said, she's the survival expert. Doc packed all his lab gear, various scanners and samplers, other stuff I don't know the names for, while Quinn brought her tools. As for me, I grabbed my favorite shoes and clean underwear. What can I say, some of my mother's lessons stuck, although I refuse to put my hair up, and haven't worn a dress in almost twenty years.

If she had her way, I'd have a vanilla husband and a dignified career as an art dealer, selling to the cultures at an exorbitant price. Instead, I'm plodding through a field, lost, while my belly chews through my backbone. For a fleeting moment I wonder what the life I left behind would've been like. Just as quickly I dismiss the curiosity; I'd have choked to death in their world.

We walk until true sunset. I pause, gazing up at the streaked sky, tear trails of scarlet blurred over cobalt. Damn, haven't seen one of those since we left Lachion, though I'm not sure how long ago that was. I wonder how Marley is faring among the clans, whether she's married Jake yet. Nobody says much as we set camp near a scrubby copse of trees that exist only to demarcate one field from another.

The rain subsides into a miserable mist, drizzling down through our clothes until we're all irascible. Dinner takes all of thirty seconds, but my mood improves marginally when I see Doc and Quinn wrap up in rain slickers and bed down on the wet ground. Seem like I may end up the same way since all I have is clean underwear, but then I see Brittany beckoning me from the mouth of her sleep cylinder. This thing only holds one person, but I mange to wiggle in beside her. She fastens the end up, and we elbow each other more than once in getting settled.

As she pulls me close, I hear Quinn grumble, "Shit, _I'd_ sleep with to get out of this weather."

Into the silence, Doc stage-whispers, "So would I."

I break down as Brittany calls back, "No thanks, I'm good."

Guess I am crazy because even though I have no earthly reason to believe things are going to work out, right now I'm happy. Maybe I'm like Brittany, and I thrive under less-that-ideal circumstances. What a fragging understatement.

"Please don't make me listen to you shagging," Quinn cracks. I hear Doc laughing, like this is an adult sleepover. "The rain's bad enough."

"You're just jealous you didn't get me while you had the chance," I shoot back, before Brittany shushes me with a kiss.

But there's no room for anything else, even if we were so inclined, and I'm _not. _Though i'm fine with the other two knowing about Brittany and me in the abstract, I don't get into V&E. My kinks are pretty tame, come to that. Her body heat warms me, and I fall asleep listening to her breathe.

_**In the morning, it's more paste and some bitching for **_breakfast. No surprise that I bear the brunt of it because I just thought to check my PA. As it turns out, 245 _does_, in fact, possess a navigation system, even if I don't.

"Greetings, Santana Lopez. It has been six days since your last entry." Do I detect a trace of censure in 245's synthesized tone? I'm telling you, this little gadget is not like other AIs.

"Sorry about that."

"Are you still having the dreams? Would you like me to–"

"Er, no. Let's not talk about that." My cheeks burn as I try to shut the machine up. Yeah, I talked to 245 when I was on Gehenna. I cringe, remembering the way I rambled about Brittany. "Can you figure out where we are? I saw that you have–"

"What world is this, Santana Lopez? I possess the ability to calculate geographic location based on latitude and longitude, but I need to assimilate certain local parameters to ensure accurate computation."

"New Terra." I give the same answer as yesterday, bit it offer significant;y different result this time.

"According to my best estimate," 245 says modestly," the nearest settlement lies 18 kilometers north-northwest. Unless I have erred, this would be Maha City.

_Shit._

I can see from their faces, they have no idea what that means. But were halfway across the continent from New Boston. "Thanks 245. See you later." With that, I snap the sphere shut, only to notice the way the others are staring at me. "What?"

"It's your best friend, huh?" Quinn smirks at me.

"No, that's you, sweetness."

I make like I'm going to hug her, and she shuts up real hick. She even backs away like I'm dangerous, deranged, or diseased. Doc glances up from organizing his gear to offer a half smile. He's been too quiet.

"Not a bad hike."Brittany tips her head back, assessing the clouds.

"I could tell her it's not going to rain. Today, the sun beats down on us from a pure blue sky, drying up the muddy patches. Even the grain glitters in the distance, throwing golden sparks row to row with each ripple of the wind. But it _is_ going to get hot.

Sighing I say, "Let's see how far we get then.

_**Nightfall finds me exhausted and bitchy, although the **_other three hold up better. Brittany wants to press on Doc and Quinn don't seem to care, irritatingly solid, both of them, so I drag my feet and mumble. I feel sweaty and wilted; my scalp itches, and every exposed inch of skin has been stung or bitten by something. We've passed several farms and outbuildings, but we agree that it's a bad sea to linger where strangers must be scarce. So I suck it up and keep going, but I draw the line when I overhear the whispered conversation taking place as the first city lights come into view.

"She's got to," Quinn murmurs, low. "You know she;s the one they're looking for, and with all that hair–"

"What about my hair?" I stop in alarm, gathering the wild mass in both hands.

"I don't know that it matters," Doc says with a strange, tight smile.

My eyes go to Brittany, who produces a wicked-looking knife. "I'm sorry, San."

"No! Come on, I can…" But I come up with nothing, so I bend my head dumbly, the sacrificial goat.

I'm not brave. As Brittany starts hacking, my vision blurs, and I can't help but sniffle. I don't _remember_ the last time I had my hair cut; it's my trademark. Maybe it's frizzy, unruly, wild as an Anduvian ice otter, but it's me–

And that is exactly why it has be shorn.

But she's not content just to slice it short. I start when I feel the blade scraping across my skull. "What the frag–"

"It'll help you pass for a boy," Quinn explains. She takes a closer look then and gives me a roguish grin. "Or a really cute butch. Rawr. Er, anyway, try to keep your head down until we can do something about those eyes."

"What's wrong with my eyes?!"

"They're memorable," Brittany says, wiping the blade on her thigh.

Sweet, but it doesn't make me feel one bit better about being bald. The ind feels too cold against my naked scalp, and I run my fingers over the rough shave with a pained little whimper. I think I might cry.

"For Mary's sake," Quinn grumbles," it's just hair. It'll grow back."

"Want me to shave yours?" I growl at her.

She shrugs. "If it'll shut you up."

"Let us give them a moment." Doc guides her away, probably whispering that she needs sensitivity training.

Brittany bends her head to mine, kissing me in a delicate brush of warmth. "You're gorgeous. All that hair hiding such beautiful bones, I can't believe it."

Though I know she's bullshitting me, trying to smooth me past the desire to throw a fit, it helps. "You're so full of it."

Brittany shakes her head, solemn as a barrister. "No, really. You might even look better this way." I narrow my eyes on her, knotting my fist in her shirt. "Too much?"

"Uh, yeah."

After lacing our fingers together, she leads me towards the others. Maha City twinkles against the dark, glints of scarlet and silver snaking together as if to form a content image. We're just not high enough to appreciate the art.

"So who are you, San?" I see her smiling, teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Oh, she's teasing me, but her comeuppance is nigh. "My little brother?"

I shrug, studiedly casual. "That's not what you need to worry about."

Her thumb slides over my index finger in a soft, proprietary caress. "And what would that be?"

"Being the guy who wants to shag your own little brother."

That's the first time I've gotten the last word with Brittany.

_**Our credits are running low. **_

I made enough to get by on Gehenna, but Outskirts currency possesses no exchange value on Conglomerate worlds. Marley could wire us funds, as Lachion is nominally a Corp world, but it would link her to us, and that's something we need to avoid, considering our infamy. If anyone suspected them of bankrolling our activities, that would be the end. So I'm not sure how we're going to pay for somewhere to stay, or how we're supposed to make our way all the way to New Boston.

Worry nags me like a frigid wife. We can't take public transport because I can't use official stations. It would be disastrous if I tried to travel using my own identity, and it would take both creds and connections to acquire a good forgery. And we don't know anyone except my parents, and it's not like I can ask them for help. If they're alive, they're mortified at how low I've sunk and are telling everyone they aren't related to me. I don't realize I'm scowling until Brittany smooths the lines from between my brows.

"We'll figure something out," she assures me softly.

Maha city spins out in concentric rings. At the center lies the posh upscale area, including the business district, the metropolitan museum, and the municipal center. I gleaned that much from looking at the map 245 showed me, but what I didn't realize is that the farther you go from the city center, the worse it gets.

We pass through shantytown first, hovels scraped together from spare parts and scrap metal. A dog sits in the road, gasing at us with uncanny eyes. Its lips curl back from its muzzle, and it growls feel in its throat as we pass by. The only vehicles seem derelict, rusted, and we find a family asleep when we peer inside.

"I'd rather camp than look for a room here." Quinn speaks for all of us, for one.

"I thought the Corp promised prosperity for everyone." The skin on the back of my neck prickles, as if we're being watched. As we continue deeper into the city, I feel glad that from my silhouette and shaven head, I look like a boy although that wouldn't discourage the determined.

"Only in advertisements," Brittany murmurs.

A yawn that crackles my jaw over takes me, the sort that leaves your eyes watering, but we can't rest until we find a safe place. Dying in our sleep won't solve anything in the long run, even id a nihilist would argue it's coming down the pike at some point anyway, so we might as well embrace it.

The moon hangs over us, bloated, gibbous, and yellow–its beams look tainted as they slide over the corrugated shelters in rivers of oily light. We trudge along until the streets start getting brighter, and we're greeted with a collage of low-slung buildings, flophouses and speakeasies. Distant, mellifluous notes slink toward us in the dark like melancholy whores.

No structure stands over two stories tall, as if they squat here in fear of giants that tear such hubris down, but an acrid smell hangs heavy in the air, declaring the machinery functional. We're unlikely to do better at this time of night. So we turn at random into a white building with a sign that proclaims with laconic largesse: rooms.

We transact business with a greasy man wearing a shirt stained with a wrk's worth of dinners and armpit sweat. Hair bristles from his face in a porcine fashion, and his grunts as we pay for our rooms reinforce that impression. He handles out rental through a metal grill, densely woven, only a slot large enough to slide a credit stick through at the bottom.

"Twelve, fourteen, and sixteen, down toward the end. There's a communal san-shower, last door." He mangoes to speak without moving his mouth, without making eye contact. Just as well because I'm not supposed to look at people until I get some tinted glasses.

This isn't the sort of place where they ask for names or identification, and I'm glad to go. The office smells of rancid meat and human sweat, loneliness and despair. Back outside, we follow the broken walk, counting the prefab housing units until we find ours. These rooms don't have palm locks because that would require configuration technology. He's given us three digits that open the metal tumblr latching the door, and there's no telling how many others know it.

"Be careful," I tell Quinn and Doc, as they go on to their rooms.

She laughs. "Anything that comes in on me tonight better be prepared to die."

Brittany pauses at the door, spinning the numerals until I hear a snick. The room revealed barely qualifies for the name, speaking in by virtue of its four walls and ceiling. No windows, no san facilities, no furniture, there's just the ragged sleep-mat that appears to be affixed to the floor.

I flash her a wry smile. "No wonder I like you. Since you take me to such nice places, and you do hair, too."

She has the grace to show chagrin as she runs a hand over my bare scalp. "I really am sorry, San. But it was for the best."

"I know. You want the shower?"

Shaking her head, she drops her bag, then kisses the tip of my nose. "You take the first one. It's only fair, considering what I've put you through. I might sack out, though, if you take more than five minutes." She gives me a sleepy smile.

There's the fist again, squeezing at my heart. Shit, I don't _want_ to feel like this, but sometimes the woman can be so sweet. It's getting harder to remember what an asshole she can be. "Thanks."

I can't wait to be clean, so I head for the san-shower. It's black in here, stale, sour air that smells as if it blows upward from sinister, sulfuric places in the dart. I bump the door shut behind me with my hip, and I'm immediately sorry.

"Lights on."

Standing here in the dark convinces me the facilities must be manual, so I fumble around, hearing my own breathing. My heart resounds in my ears as I find the switch. Sudden illumination. I swallow a shriek as a swarm of chittering insects scuttle across the floor and out of sight. Being dirty seems _much _less objectionable, but I refuse to concede defeat. So I close my eyes and scrub up, amazed at how fast it goes without hair to wash.

I dress quickly, watching my feet for the return of those creepy things. Crunchy bugs make the inside of my stomach shudder. Shouldering my bag, I step out onto the walk, flick the switch, then shut the door behind me.

My hear gives a wild thump as Doc steps out of the shadows. _Right, he's in room 16, the last before the shower. _But I thought I heard the murmur of him talking to someone, although I don't see anyone else around.

"You scared me."

Mary, he looks so strange in this light, something about the way the moon shines his eyes, almost blind but feral. I feel the same unease as I did aboard the _Folly_, after I discovered his deception.

"Did I?"

"Yes." I back up a step, wrestling with an irrational instinct telling me to run.

"Intuition is an interesting thing," he says. "Sometimes it gives us cues that cannot be explained by logic. Don't you find that to be the case, Santana?"

"Doc wouldn't have lied to me." I take another step back, finding myself flush against the building. "He wouldn't. Who _are _you?"

In a movement so fast I can't track it, the creature whips an arm around my throat. "Excellent. I'm tired of this skin." His flesh seems to liquefy, then it sloughs away to reveal a bony carapace with black holes where the eyes hold be. The creature's body elongates, no longer short and stocky. "So cramped and limiting."

"You're a Slider," I breathe.

I've heard of them, so dubbed because they can slide into someone else's life seamlessly. They're the best bounty hunters in the known universe, native to Ithiss-Tor, but who expects ever to _meet _one? They're rare like chi-masters and glass-dancers. I should feel flattered that the Corp set on on me. Instead, my stomach knots, and my palms start to sweat.

"An unflattering designation." Its mandible flexes, a sign of displeasure, undoubtedly. "You were so cooperative, coming to New Terra with me like this."

_Shit._

"M-maybe we could cut a deal–" I try to stall, find out what it wants most. Maybe someone will come out and surprise it. If I scream, will it kill me? Am I wort more dead or alive? I fraying wish I knew.

"How much do you care for them?" it whispers. "If you refuse to accompany me to the rendezvous point, my associates will descend on this place and kill everyone for the inconvenience. But if you cooperate, I will let them go. There is no bounty on them, and I care nothing for this 'project,' although the doctor's research is…interesting. However, I have no been hired to safeguard Farwan's interests, only to retrieve you."

I feel it's claw tracing a caress across my throat.


End file.
